THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


J 


f. 


$ 


WHEN  THE  DEVIL  WAS  WELL 


./^ 


ROBER 


,WJ|^JiE,J5EVIL 


[^'A  ma'>   of  twenty-two,  hil^'^ 
ish  by  reason  of  his  long  hair, 


le  piore  girl- 
inookea  nothing 

egs  than  EagHfh   cxt*(Hth:!fe»tcbri  UNPUBLISHED  STORY 

—  Andrew  Lang 

BY 

ROBERT  LOUIS 
STEVENS  OX 

WITH 
INTRODUCTION    BY 

JA?\  P.  TRENT 


THK  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIEn 

PRINTED    FOR  MEMBERS  ONLY 

BOSTON-MCMXXI 


1 

^' 

P^!L.-^ 

^ 

miVii 

j.df'WiTillMmiriiiiiittiJ'fUWiiiiH'' 


.H^Jo-^-*  tqaox'i  ri»il:^n3   nsdj  <83l 


HITHERTO   UNPUBLISHED  STORY 
BY 

ROBERT   LOUIS 
STEVEXSOX 

WITH 
INTRODUCTION    BY 

1\1LLIA?\  P.  TREXT 
.  "^„. . 

THE  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIETi' 

PRINTED    FOR  MEMBERS  ONLY 

BOSTON-MCMXXI 


Y 


Copyright,  1921.  by 
THE   BIBLIOPHILE   SOCIETY 

ALL   EIGHTS   RESERVED 


PR 


INTRODUCTION 

In  the  light  of  present  knowledge  the  story 
here  printed  for  the  first  time  is  the  earliest 
extant  piece  of  prose  fiction  written  by  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  Juvenilia  such  as  "The 
Pentland  Rising"  and  a  few  essays  and  some 
verses  lay  behind  him,  when,  in  November 
1874,  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Sitwell,  later  Lady 
Colvin:  "I  have  finished  The  Story  of  King 
Matthias'  Hunting  Horn,  whereof  I  spoke  to 
you,  and  I  think  it  should  be  good.  It  excites 
me  like  wine,  or  fire,  or  death,  or  love,  or 
something;  nothing  of  my  own  writing  ever 
excited  me  so  much;  it  does  seem  to  me  so 
weird  and  fantastic." 

The  tale  named  has,  according  to  Sir  Sid- 
ney Colvin,  "perished  like  so  many  other 
stories  of  this  time."  Stevenson's  rapture  over 
it  prepares  us  for  the  following  sentences  in  a 
letter  of  January  1875,  to  the  same  lady:     'T 

[9] 


am  so  happy.  I  am  no  longer  here  in  Edin- 
burgh. I  have  been  all  yesterday  evening  and 
this  afternoon  in  Italy,  four  hundred  years 
ago,  with  one  Sannazaro,  sculptor,  painter, 
poet,  etc.,  and  one  Ippolita,  a  beautiful  Duch- 
ess. O  I  like  it  badly!  I  wish  you  could 
hear  it  at  once;  or  rather  I  wish  you  could  see 
it  immediately  in  beautiful  type  on  such  a 
page  as  it  ought  to  be,  in  my  first  little  volume 
of  stories.  What  a  change  this  is  from  col- 
lecting dull  notes  for  John  Knox,  as  I  have 
been  all  the  early  part  of  the  week  —  the  differ- 
ence between  life  and  death.  .  .  vous  ver- 
rez,  and  if  you  don't  like  this  story — well,  I 
give  it  up  if  you  don't  like  it.  Not  but  what 
there's  a  long  way  to  travel  yet;  I  am  no  farth- 
er than  the  threshold ;  I  have  only  set  the  men, 
and  the  game  has  still  to  be  played,  and  a  lot 
of  dim  notions  must  become  definite  and 
shapely,  and  a  deal  be  clear  to  me  that  is  any- 
thing but  clear  as  yet.  The  story  shall  be 
called,  I  think.  When  the  Devil  was  Well,  in 
allusion  to  the  old  proverb." 

Sir  Sidney  Colvin  tells  us  that  the  "Italian 
story  so  delightedly  begun  was  by  and  by  con- 
demned and  destroyed  like  all  the  others  of 

[lo] 


this  time."  Sir  Graham  Balfour,  Steven- 
son's biographer,  who  assigns  the  beginning 
of  the  tale  to  the  close  of  1874,  merely  says 
that  it  "was  finished  the  next  year,  and  the 
unfavourable  opinion  of  his  friends  was  ac- 
cepted as  final."  That  it  did  not  perish  is  now 
amply  demonstrated,  and  perhaps  it  was  pre- 
served because  at  least  one  early  reader  was 
sufficiently  enthusiastic  —  Was  it  R.  A.  M. 
Stevenson?  —  to  write  on  the  last  page  of  the 
manuscript,  "Bravissimo,  caro  mio!"  Or  per- 
haps it  survived  because  Stevenson  never  for- 
got that  he  had  once  lived  with  his  duchess 
and  his  sculptor- the  latter  of  whom,  by  the 
way,  he  always  presented  as  Sanazarro,  not  as 
Sannazzaro  or  as  Sannazaro,  the  form  of 
spelling  in  which  the  name  of  the  real  Italian 
poet  usually  appears. 

A  letter  to  his  friend  Colvin  written  from 
Edinburgh  in  the  same  month  of  January 
1875,  makes  further  mention  of  our  story,  or 
novelette  as  its  length  almost  warrants  our 
calling  it:  "I  shall  have  another  Portfolio 
paper  as  soon  as  I  am  done  with  this  story, 
that  has  played  me  out;  the  story  is  to  be  called 
When  the  Devil  was  Well:  scene,  Italy,  Ren- 


aissance;  colour,  purely  imaginary  of  course, 
my  own  unregenerate  imagination  of  what 
Italy  then  was.  O,  when  shall  I  find  the 
story  of  my  dreams,  that  shall  never  halt  nor 
wander  nor  step  aside,  but  go  ever  before  its 
face,  and  ever  swifter  and  louder,  until  the  pit 
receives  it,  roaring?"  A  little  later  in  the 
same  month  he  mentioned  to  Colvin  another 
story  he  was  finishing.  The  Two  Falconers  of 
Cairnstane,  his  imagination  having  turned,  it 
would  seem,  to  his  native  land.  In  the  same 
letter  he  included  this  tale  and  King  Matthias' 
Hunting  Horn  in  a  list  of  twelve  stories,  four 
of  them  Scotch,  some  of  which  he  had  ready, 
some  of  which  needed  copying,  finishing,  or 
''reorganization;"  some  of  which  were  only 
"in  gremio."  He  discussed  getting  them  into 
shape  for  A  Book  of  Stories,  preferring  publi- 
cation as  a  volume  to  trying  his  luck  with  the 
magazines.  But  there  was  apparently  no 
word  more  about  When  the  Devil  was  Well. 
Had  the  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  friends 
been  reached  thus  early,  or  was  his  own  love 
for  Ippolita  waning? 

However  this  may  be,  he  had  tasted  the  de- 
light of  writing  fiction,  and  his  appetite  for 

[12] 


success  was  unappeased.  Soon  he  was  en- 
gaged on  an  old  story,  to  which  he  had  given 
the  new  name  of  A  Country  Dance^  —  a  per- 
formance to  be  comprised  in  six  or  seven  chap- 
ters. Preparing  articles  bothered  him;  he 
was  working  "like  a  madman"  at  his  stories. 
Then  travel,  studying  for  the  law,  and  many 
other  things  occupy  his  mind,  and  there  is  lit- 
tle room  for  stories;  but  by  January  1876,  he 
is  trying  his  hand  at  a  novel,  and  his  essays 
take  up  a  good  deal  of  his  time.  The  novel 
was  probably  The  Hair  Trunk;  or,  the  Ideal 
Commonwealth,  mentioned  in  a  letter  of  May 
1877,  a  work  which  partly  exists  in  manu- 
script, and  is  said  to  contain  "some  tolerable 
fooling."  Then  he  is  going  to  send  Temple 
Bar,  his  story,  The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Mouse- 
trap, a  not  uninteresting  tour  de  force,  which 
we  read  today  in  The  New  Arabian  Nights 
as  The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door.  Another 
bit  of  fiction,  The  Stepfather's  Story,  probably 
came  to  nothing,  but  Will  0'  the  Mill,  men- 
tioned in  August  1877,  which  is  now  read  in 
The  Merry  Men,  was  accepted  by  Leslie 
Stephen  for  the  Comhill,  and  appeared  in  the 
number  of  January  1878.     Meanwhile  Tem- 

[13] 


pie  Bar,  in  the  number  of  October  1877,  had 
printed  A  Lodging  for  the  Night:  A  Story  of 
Francis  Villon.  A  comparison  of  the  text  of 
the  story  as  given  in  the  magazine  with  that 
to  be  found  in  The  New  Arabian  Nights  will 
show  that  Stevenson  had  "arrived,"  not  mere- 
ly as  a  writer  of  prose  fiction,  but  as  a  master 
of  English  style.  Comparison  of  the  excel- 
lent story  of  Villon  with  When  the  Devil  was 
Well  will  greatly  help  the  future  student  to 
determine  the  advance  made  by  Steven- 
son in  his  art  between  the  winter  of  1875  and 
the  autumn  of  1877. 

Turning  now  to  the  manuscript  of  When 
the  Devil  was  Well,  we  find  that  it  consists  of 
fifty-four  carefully  numbered  quarto  leaves, 
the  first  of  which  is  herewith  given  in  facsim- 
ile,—  the  back  of  each  leaf,  with  one  excep- 
tion, being  blank.  The  text  throughout  is  in 
ink  in  a  hand  of  medium,  or  a  shade  above 
medium,  size.  Many  erasures,  insertions,  and 
other  changes  throw  considerable  and  inter- 
esting light  upon  the  attitude  of  the  young 
writer  toward  his  style.  These  alterations  are 
for  the  main  part  indicated  in  the  appendix, 
and  a  study  of  them  will  convince  most  per- 

[14] 


sons  that  the  changes  made  are,  as  a  rule,  dis- 
tinctly for  the  better.  So  far  as  can  be  deter- 
mined, ail  the  alterations  due  to  Stevenson 
himself  are  in  ink,  the  numerous  changes  and 
suggestions  due  to  others  being  in  pencil. 
Through  how  many  other  revising  hands  the 
manuscript  passed  is  difficult  to  determine  — 
perhaps  even  the  greatest  expert  in  matters  of 
handwriting  would  hesitate  to  express  a  very 
positive  opinion.  It  is  clear,  however,  that  at 
least  three  readers  left  their  pencilled  traces. 
One  annotator — by  far  the  most  copious  and 
interesting  —  we  have  assumed  to  be  Steven- 
son's father,  the  engineer  Thomas  Stevenson, 
who  at  the  time  of  this  story  was  about  fifty- 
seven  years  old.  This  assumption  is  based  on 
statements  made  in  the  catalogue  of  the  An- 
derson Galleries,  New  York,  for  the  sale  of 
November  29-30,  1920.  Another  reader,  who 
left  but  few  traces,  is  identified  by  the  hand 
assumed  to  be  Thomas  Stevenson's  as  "Steph- 
en." It  seems  hard  to  find  among  Stevenson's 
relatives  and  friends  one  whose  Christian 
name  would  point  to  him  as  the  annotator, 
and  a  natural  and  pleasing  inference  is  that 
the  person  we  are  in  search  of  is  no  other  than 

[15] 


the  distinguished  critic,  Leslie  Stephen,  then 
editing  the  Corn/?///, -later  editor  of  The  Dic- 
tionary of  National  Biography^  and  Sir  Les- 
lie. In  February  1875  —  the  month  after 
When  the  Devil  was  Well  seems  to  have  been 
written  —  Stephen,  who  was  lecturing  in  Edin- 
burgh, called  on  Stevenson,  and  took  him  to 
see  Henley,  who  was  then  confined  to  an  in- 
firmary. Colvin  had  already  introduced 
Stevenson  to  Stephen,  and  the  latter  had  print- 
ed the  former's  paper,  Victor  Hugo's  Ro- 
mances, in  the  Cornhill,  hence  it  seems  not  too 
hazardous  to  conjecture  that  in  some  way  or 
other  Stephen  was  induced  to  glance  over  the 
manuscript  of  the  story,  whether  or  not  it  was 
in  anyone's  mind  that  he  might  use  it  in  his 
magazine.^ 

The  third  reader,  who  has  left  clear  traces 
in  the  manuscript,  was  the  enthusiastic  one 
whose  comment  in  Italian  has  already  been 
given.  It  has  been  plausibly  conjectured  that 
he  was  Stevenson's  cousin,  Robert  Alan  Mow- 

^  Since  this  was  written,  a  comparison  of  the  annotation 
attributed  to  "Stephen"  with  a  holograph  letter  of  Leslie 
Stephen's  leaves  practically  no  doubt  that  the  reviser  of  Stev- 
enson's manuscript  at  this  point  was,  as  is  held  in  the  text,  the 
editor   of  the  Cornhill. 

[16] 


bray  Stevenson,  three  and  a  half  years  his 
senior,  who  became  a  distinguished  critic  of 
painting.  The  exuberance  of  the  unknown's 
comment  seems  somewhat  to  savor  of  the  con- 
versational brilliance  said  to  have  character- 
ized this  talented  cousin,  but  positive  identifi- 
cation of  him  with  the  annotator  is  impossi- 
ble, in  the  absence  of  specimens  of  his  hand- 
writing. Equally  impossible  is  it  to  make 
sure  whether  all  the  persons  who  passed  judg- 
ment upon  the  manuscript  have  been  clearly 
differentiated.  More  than  once  what  has 
been  assumed  to  be  the  handwriting  of  Thom- 
as Stevenson  furnishes  occasion  for  the  sus- 
picion that  perhaps  some  mistake  has  been 
made,  and  that  a  fourth  reader  is  lurking  in 
the  misty  background. 

Were  now  these  three,  four,  or  more  ad- 
visers right  in  their  verdict  reported  as  hav- 
ing been  on  the  whole  unfavorable?  From 
some  points  of  view  they  doubtless  were. 
Stevenson  had  made  a  good  beginning  as  a  re- 
viewer and  essayist,  and,  as  that  accomplished 
bibliographer,  the  late  Col.  W.  F.  Prideaux  re- 
minded us,  he  had  apparently  begun  to  recog- 
nize in  his  paper  on  Hugo's  romances  the  abil- 

[17] 


ity  to  say  things  in  the  way  they  should  be 
said.  Something  of  this  ability  is  discover- 
able in  When  the  Devil  was  IVell^  but  it  was 
an  open  question  in  1875  whether  the  young 
writer's  reputation  might  not  be  damaged  by 
the  appearance  of  a  story  no  more  striking  in 
plot  and  characterization  than  this  early  per- 
formance. On  the  other  hand,  we  may  agree 
with  Stevenson's  advisers,  and  yet  be  very  glad 
that  we  are  enabled  to  read  the  story  they 
counselled  him  to  suppress.  We  can  per- 
ceive that,  although  amateurish,  it  is  quite 
readable  as  a  whole,  and  contains  not  a  few 
premonitory  touches  of  something  we  now 
know  to  have  been  genius.  We  can  cast 
around  it  a  mild  halo  of  sentiment  and  affec- 
tion without  feeling  that  we  have  done  a  griev- 
ous wrong  to  our  critical  faculties.  We  can 
readily  perceive  its  value  to  the  close  student 
of  Stevenson's  evolution  as  an  artist.  Finally, 
we  can  rest  assured  that  what  Stevenson  did 
not  destroy  probably  made  an  appeal  to  him 
which  is  not  likely  to  be  lost  upon  his  admirers 
old  or  new. 

W.  P.  Trent 
[18] 


WHEN  THE  DEVIL  WAS  WELL 

When  Duke  Orsino  had  finally  worn  out 
the  endurance  of  his  young  wife  Ippolita,  he 
made  no  opposition  to  her  departure  from  the 
palace,  and  even  had  her  escorted  with  all 
honour  to  the  nunnery  among  the  hills,  which 
she  had  chosen  for  her  retreat.  Here,  the 
good  soul  began  to  heal  herself  of  all  the 
slights  that  had  been  put  upon  her  in  these 
last  years ;  and  day  by  day,  she  grew  to  a  great- 
er quietness  of  spirit,  and  a  more  deep  content- 
ment in  the  little  sunshiny,  placid,  ways  of 
convent  life;  until  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  the 
din  and  passion,  all  the  smoke  and  stir  of  that 
dim  spot  that  men  call  earth,  had  passed  too 
far  away  from  her  to  move  her  any  more.  It 
seemed  as  if  life  were  quite  ended  for  her,  and 

[Stevenson's  own  punctuation,  which  includes  a  liberal  num- 
ber of  commas,  has  for  the  most  part  been  followed  in  print- 
ing this  story.] 

[19] 


yet,  in  a  new  sense,  beginning.  As  day  fol- 
lowed day,  without  violence,  without  distrust, 
without  the  poor  falsehood  or  the  poor  pomp 
of  a  court  life  she  seemed  to  breathe  in  renova- 
tion, and  grow  ever  stronger  and  ever  the  more 
peaceful  at  heart.  And  yet  the  third  year  had 
not  come  to  an  end,  before  this  peace  was  over- 
thrown. For  about  that  time  it  chanced  that 
there  was  a  new  great  altar-piece  needed  for 
the  convent  chapel ;  and  so  the  authorities  sent 
for  a  young  sculptor,  who  (as  was  possible  in 
these  grand  days)  was  a  bit  of  a  painter  also, 
and  a  bit  of  an  architect  too,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  and,  for  that  matter,  he  could  turn  a  son- 
net as  well  as  another,  and  touch  a  lute.  One 
morning,  after  Sanazarro  (for  that  was  the 
sculptor's  name),  had  been  the  matter  of  a 
week  about  his  picture,  he  chanced  to  look  out 
of  his  window  in  the  early  morning,  while 
Ippolita  went  to  and  fro  in  the  garden  read- 
ing. He  looked  at  her  carelessly  enough  at 
first;  but  he  was  so  taken,  before  she  left  the 
garden,  with  the  dignity  and  delicacy  of  her 
shape,  and  a  certain  large  and  tranquil  sorrow 
in  her  face,  that  he  made  an  oath  to  himself 
inwardly,  not  to  leave  the  convent  until  he  had 

[20] 


■*yftiT(\jr^m 


^■l 


3 


i 


\ 


3 


r 


^ 


'I    X. 


J- 1  1  t  i 

^  1  "^  ^  d  V  <^ 


^^^ 


.     ij^»n*«sf*2i^l/'''w' 


^ 


H 


J 
T 


1^    ci   <^w 


^ 
^ 


\S   '5     1' 


1^^ 


'i 


ii 


^.^X,/ 


seen  more  of  this  sweet  nun.  And  so  that  day 
nothing  would  go  right  with  his  altar-piece, 
it  seemed.  He  painted  in  and  painted  out, 
till  it  was  hard  to  divine  what  he  was  after; 
and  by  evening,  the  canvass  looked  altogether 
different,  and  there  was  a  great  bald  space 
now,  where  before  there  had  been  much  finish- 
ed work.  You  see,  he  had  to  change  his  whole 
composition,  before  he  could  make  room  for 
another  full  length  female  figure. 

The  next  morning,  before  the  sun  rose,  he 
was  at  his  window;  and  again  the  beautiful 
nun  walked  for  an  hour  or  two  about  the  con- 
vent garden,  not  reading  this  time,  but  stoop- 
ing here  and  there  among  the  borders  to  pluck 
flowers,  following  butterflies  to  and  fro  with 
a  sort  of  grave  curiosity,  standing  to  listen  for 
long  times  together  to  a  bird  on  one  of  the  cy- 
presses, and  looking  out,  with  gladness  in  her 
eyes,  on  the  long  peep  of  woodland  and  fall- 
ing vale  that  opened  through  the  mountains 
toward  the  south.  This  decided  him  for  good 
and  all;  he  would  have  the  painting  of  that 
nun,  he  told  himself,  if  it  cost  him  his  finger 
nails.  So  he  desired  an  audience  of  the  Lady 
Abbess,  and  told  her  roundly  enough,  that  he 

[21] 


could  do  no  more  without  a  proper  model  for 
the  angel  in  the  right-hand  corner.  The  poor 
Superior  was  in  consternation,  and  wondered 
if  he  could  by  no  means  find  what  he  needed 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

"We  have  the  very  thing  here  under  our 
own  eyes,"  said  Sanazarro,  with  a  little  sigh. 
"But  I  suppose  it  may  not  be  —  she  is  a  nun." 
The  Abbess  was  properly  scandalised,  and  in- 
formed him  that,  in  accordance  with  their 
strict  rule,  he  had  never — no,  not  so  much  as 
for  one  moment  —  seen  the  face  of  any  of  the 
religious  of  that  house. 

"Nun  or  no  nun,"  he  returned,  "my  model 
walks  up  and  down  the  garden  every  morning 
in  a  nun's  habit." 

"Ah  Signer,  that  is  no  nun,"  said  the  Ab- 
bess; "that  is  the  Duchess  of  Orsino,  a  very 
great  lady,  and  so  piously  given  that  she  lives 
here  with  us,  by  permission  of  her  husband, 
the  Duke.  But  our  end  is  none  the  better 
served.  We  cannot  ask  a  great  princess  that 
she  should  hold  up  her  face  to  you  while  you 
paint." 

"And  yet  the  end  is  God's  Glory,"  said  San- 

[22] 


azarro,  as  though  he  were  thinking  to  him- 
self.    .     / 

"It  is  not  as  if  it  were  a  mythological  sub- 
ject, or  a  mere  portrait." 

"By  no  means,"  said  the  Abbess. 

"And  so,  if  she  be  piously  given  —  you  said 
she  was  given  piously?" 

"A  perfect  angel!"  said  the  Abbess,  casting 
up  her  eyes. 

"In  short,"  concluded  Sanazarro,  in  a  tone 
that  did  not  admit  of  question,  "if  she  will  not 
so  far  discompose  herself  for  God'.s  service  and 
the  zeal  of  this  house,  there  is  no  other  help 
for  it,  nothing  else  is  here  that  would  serve 
my  end,  and  I  must  go  for  some  weeks'  study 
to  the  town."  And  he  made  as  if  he  was  go- 
ing out. 

Now  the  Abbess,  as  he  knew  very  well,  de- 
sired to  have  the  new  altar-piece  against  a  cer- 
tain festival,  and  would  go  a  long  way  to 
bring  about  her  fancy.  "I  will  speak  at  once 
with  the  Duchess,"  she  said.  And  as  this  was 
all  the  young  sculptor  could  expect,  he  bowed 

1  These  dots  appear  in  the  manuscript,  and  do  not  indicate 
any  omission.  This  applies  also  throughout  the  story,  wherever 
they   are  shown. 

[23] 


and  went  back  to  his  work  in  so  fine  a  flutter 
of  expectation  that  he  could  scarce  hold  his 
pencils.  He  had  not  been  many  minutes  over 
his  canvass,  ere  he  was  bidden  by  the  old  gar- 
dener to  speak  with  her  Grace.  She  was 
lodged  in  a  small  pavilion,  decorated  with  her 
own  hand  and  stored  with  books  and  materials 
for  embroidery,  and  instruments  of  music. 
You  may  be  quite  sure  her  heart  beat  as  hard 
as  Sanazarro's  at  the  thought  of  this  interview, 
for  it  was  some  years  since  she  had  spoken  with 
any  besides  the  good  quiet  women  of  the  con- 
vent, women  whose  time  was  measured  out  to 
them  by  the  bell  for  offices,  the  Mulberry  har- 
vest and  the  Archbishop's  annual  visit.  He 
made  her  a  very  handsome  salutation,  which 
she  returned  to  him  with  dignity;  and  after  a 
few  moments  of  talk,  she  addressed  the  Ab- 
bess, who  stood  by,  and  told  her  she  would 
love  so  much  to  see  the  progress  of  the  picture 
that  she  was  willing  to  let  herself  be  painted, 
as  a  sort  of  price.  ''You  must  see  that  you 
make  me  fair  enough,  Signor,"  she  added  with 
a  little  laugh. 

The  Abbess  was  usually  present  at  their  sit- 
tings and,  while  she  was  there,  there  was  much 

[24] 


talk  between  the  sculptor  and  the  Duchess. 
When  they  were  left  alone,  they  spoke  less  and 
with  less  freedom;  Sanazarro  grew  shamefast, 
and  bent  over  his  painting,  and  often,  when  he 
raised  his  eyes  with  intent  to  speak,  there  was 
something  in  her  face  that  discouraged  him 
and  made  the  words  die  on  his  lips:  they  were 
never  the  right  words  somehow.  It  was  a 
pleasant  time  for  both.  There  was  the  great 
shadowed  room,  with  a  flicker  of  vine  leaves 
at  the  stanchioned  window;  the  canvass  dyed 
in  gold  and  amethyst  and  peopled  with  many 
speaking  countenances  of  saints  and  angels; 
and  these  two  beautiful  young  folk,  thinking 
silently  of  each  other  with  downcast  eyes,  or 
courting,  unconsciously  to  themselves,  in  the 
grave  presence  of  the  nun.  And  when  from 
time  to  time,  a  puf]f  of  wind  would  bring  in  to 
them  the  odour  of  the  limes,  or  a  bell  would 
ring  for  some  office,  and  they  could  hear  the 
organ  and  chanting  from  the  chapel,  these 
things  would  fall  so  exactly  into  the  vein  of 
their  sweet  talk  that  they  seemed  to  be  a  part 
of  it;  and  the  two  were  grateful,  each  to  the 
other,  for  the  pleasure  of  them.  Ippolita 
grew  to  be  all  in  all  to  Sanazarro;  and  he,  in 

[25] 


his  turn,  was  all  in  all  to  her.  When  there 
came  a  messenger  from  the  city,  telling  her 
that  there  were  some  signs  of  a  good  change  in 
her  husband's  disposition,  she  was  glad  indeed, 
in  a  saintly,  sisterly  sort  of  way,  for  the  sake 
of  the  man  who  had  so  much  injured  her;  but 
all  the  gladness  and  the  gratitude  went  down 
somehow  to  the  account  of  Sanazarro,  and  she 
loved  him  the  better  for  the  good  news. 

One  morning,  as  Ippolita  was  walking  as 
usual  in  the  sloping  garden,  she  raised  her  eyes 
by  chance  and  met  those  of  Sanazarro  intently 
following  her  as  she  went.  Both  started.  The 
sculptor  withdrew  his  head;  and  when  again 
he  ventured  to  peep  forth,  the  Duchess  had  re- 
covered her  composure  and  was  walking  to 
and  fro  among  the  borders  as  before,  with 
just  a  little  touch  of  added  dignity  in  her  car- 
riage. She  left  the  garden  half  an  hour  soon- 
er than  was  her  custom.  That  day  the  sitting 
was  rather  nervous  work;  and  when  the  Ab- 
bess left  them  alone  together  for  a  while,  al- 
though the  embarrassment  of  the  silence  grew 
almost  unendurable,  they  did  not  exchange  one 
word  till  she  returned.  The  next  morning, 
Sanazarro  waited  and  waited  at  the  window; 

[26] 


the  bees  and  butterflies  came  and  went  among 
the  blossoms,  the  sunlit  garden  was  flickered 
over  with  the  swift  shadows  of  flying  swallows, 
the  doves  crooned  on  the  gutter  overhead,  the 
gardener  came  and  dug  awhile  under  the  win- 
dow and  sang  to  his  work  in  a  cracked  voice; 
—  but  there  was  no  Ippolita.  You  may  fancy 
if  the  painting  went  heavily  all  that  day;  the 
two  young  folk  were  so  tongue-tied,  that  the 
Abbess  had  the  talk  all  her  own  way,  and 
taught  them  recipes  for  possets  and  cordials 
and  dressings  to  lay  upon  fresh  wounds,  and 
told  them  tales  of  her  sainted  predecessor, 
Monna  Francesca,  until  it  was  time  to  sepa- 
rate. But  on  the  third  morning,  Ippolita  ap- 
peared again,  with  heightened  colour  and  a 
sweet  consciousness  of  gait  For  some  time, 
she  avoided  that  part  of  the  garden  which  was 
looked  upon  by  Sanazarro's  lodging,  but  at 
last  (as  though  she  thought  there  was  a  sort  of 
confession  in  too  much  diffidence)  she  began 
to  draw  near  to  it  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
walk.  Nay,  she  stood  a  long  while  immedi- 
ately underneath,  pulling  a  rose  in  pieces  in 
an  absent  doubtful  manner;  once  even,  she 
raised  her  head  a  little,  as  though  she  would 

[27] 


fain  be  certain  whether  or  not  she  was  ob- 
served, and  then  thinking  better  of  it,  changed 
colour  and  walked  off  again  with  all  imagin- 
able dignity  of  gait.  Never  were  two  people 
met  in  such  adorable  spirits,  as  these  two  that 
afternoon;  and  the  Abbess  had  sometimes  to 
dry  her  eyes  and  sometimes  to  hold  her  sides 
for  laughing,  —  they  talked  with  such  gaiety 
and  passion  on  all  manner  of  things,  sad  and 
merry  and  beautiful.  The  next  day,  as  Ippo- 
lita  drew  near,  there  fluttered  down  in  the  sun- 
shine, out  of  Sanazarro's  window,  a  little  open 
leaf  of  white  paper  with  some  writing  on  it. 
Looking  up  covertly,  while  yet  she  was  some 
distance  off,  she  saw  the  sculptor's  face  was 
there  no  longer;  and  so,  telling  herself  all 
manner  of  good,  wise  reasons  for  the  folly,  she 
came  forward  hurriedly  and  snatched  up  the 
treasure  and  put  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
It  was  a  sonnet  written  as  Sanazarro  knew 
how,  clear  and  strong  in  form,  and  of  a  dainty 
turn,  in  which  he  addressed  some  unknown 
goddess  who  had  made  the  world  a  new  world 
for  him,  and  given  him  a  new  acquaintance 
with  his  soul. 

All  this  time,  you  will  ask  me,  where  were 

[28] 


the  Abbess's  eyes?  She  was  a  simple  creature, 
indeed,  but  I  do  think  the  good  soul  had 
her  own  suspicions,  and  I  believe  the  whole 
business  cost  her  many  a  God-forgive-me,  and 
that  she  atoned  by  secret  penances  for  the  lit- 
tle indulgences,  the  little  opportunities  of  pri- 
vate talk  that  she  was  wont  to  make  for  the 
two  lovers.  You  may  join  the  strictest  order 
on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  but  if  you  are  a  good- 
hearted  sentimental  old  maid,  you  will  be  a 
good-hearted  sentimental  old  maid  to  the  end. 
And  all  this  time,  there  passed  no  word  of  love 
between  the  pair.  Something  about  Ippolita 
imposed  upon  Sanazarro  and  withheld  him, 
and  had  so  much  changed  him,  indeed,  that 
he  scarcely  recognised  himself.  Only  a  strange 
familiarity  and  confidence  grew  up,  and,  when 
they  were  alone,  they  told  each  other  all  the 
secret  troubles  of  their  past  lives,  and  Ippolita 
would  lean  upon  his  chair  to  see  him  paint. 
At  last  one  day,  as  summer  drew  near  to  its 
meridian,  and  the  picture,  in  spite  of  all  dally- 
ing, grew  and  grew  hourly  toward  accomplish- 
ment, Ippolita  came  and  leant  after  this  fash- 
ion on  Sanazarro's  chair.  He  could  feel  her 
touch  upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  breath  stirred 

[29] 


his  hair  as  it  came  and  went.  A  film  stood 
before  his  eyes,  he  could  paint  no  longer;  and 
thus  they  remained  for  some  troubled  seconds 
in  silence.  Then  Sanazarro  laid  down  his 
palette  and  brushes,  stood  up  and  turned  round 
to  her  and  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  The 
sight  of  her  face,  white  and  frightened  and 
expectant,  with  mild  eyes,  and  a  tremulous  un- 
der lip  —  the  sight  of  her  face  was  to  him  as 
if  he  had  seen  the  thoughts  of  his  own  heart  in 
a  mirror.  Their  mouths  joined,  with  a  shud- 
der, in  one  long  kiss.  This  was  the  time  when 
Sanazarro  should  have  died.  A  man  should 
die,  when  he  has  saved  a  life,  or  finished  a 
great  work,  or  set  the  first  kiss  upon  his  lady's 
lips ;  at  one  of  those  short  seasons  when  he  feels 
as  if  he  had  attained  to  the  summit  of  attain- 
ment, and  had  no  more  to  live  for.  It  was 
Ippolita  who  came  soonest  to  herself;  she 
plucked  her  lips  away  from  his,  and  laid  her 
hand  confidently  on  his  shoulder:  "Now 
dear,"  she  said,  "you  must  go  away  —  You 
must  not  see  me  more  —  Work,  and  think 
sometimes  of  me;  and  I  shall  pray  and  think 
of  you." 

After  that,  the  Duchess  gave  Sanazarro  no 

[30] 


more  sittings.  He  finished  his  picture  in  a 
week,  working  at  it  without  rest  or  intermis- 
sion, and  then  took  leave  of  the  good  Abbess, 
and  went  forth  again  into  the  world  with  great 
happiness  and  sorrow  in  his  heart.  As  he  went 
down  that  beautiful  reach  of  valley  that  was 
visible  from  the  convent  garden,  he  stopped 
often  to  look  back.  He  could  see  its  congre- 
gated roofs  and  the  chapel  belfry  shine  in  the 
sunlight  among  the  black  pines,  under  the 
glaring  dusty  shoulder  of  the  hill.  He  looked 
back  into  that  narrow  crevice,  and  then  forth 
and  on  where  the  widening  valley  showed  him 
many  fruitful  counties  and  famous  cities  and 
the  far-ofif  brightness  of  the  Adriatic  beyond 
all;  and  he  thought  how  he  left  his  soul  be- 
hind him  in  that  cleft  of  the  big  hills,  and  how 
all  these  kingdoms  of  the  earth  that  lay  out- 
spread below,  could  offer  him  nothing  that  he 
loved  or  coveted.  It  was  no  wonder  if  his 
horse  went  slowly.* 

1  Sanazarro's  29th  Sonnet:  many  interesting  details,  besides 
those  borrowed  in  the  text,  are  to  be  found  in  these  delightful 
poems,  which  I  am  always  glad  to  think,  it  was  his  last  work 
on  earth  to  revise  and  perfect.     [Author's  note.] 


[31] 


Duke  Orsino  had  been  long  ailing;  it  was 
months  since  he  had  been  withdrawn  from  war 
and  gallantry;  these  months  had  each  brought 
with  them  some  new  token  of  failing  strength, 
and  he  had  been  confined  first  to  the  garden, 
and  next  to  the  studio  and  the  great  gallery, 
and  then  to  his  own  room.  For  three  weeks 
no[w]  he  had  been  bed-ridden.  And  just  as 
the  splendour  and  vigour  of  the  life  of  the 
Palazzo  had  declined  at  first,  step  by  step  with 
his  declining  health,  there  began  now  a  sort 
of  contrary  movement;  and  as  he  grew  ever 
worse,  the  steps  of  the  religious  were  more 
common  on  the  marble  staircase,  a  haunting 
odour  of  incense  hung  about  the  house,  and  the 
work  of  the  new  chapel  was  pushed  on  with  the 
more  energy  day  by  day.  A  young  statuary 
had  come  recently  from  Florence  for  the 
greater  decoration  of  the  tomb  in  the  south 
aisle;  and  the  sound  of  himself  and  his  work- 
men singing  gaily  over  the  clay  or  the  marble, 
stole  out  through  the  house  and  fell  often  upon 
my  lord's  ear,  as  he  lay,  propped  upon  pillows, 
thumbing  and  muttering  over  his  book  of 
hours.  Among  other  signs  that  the  Duke's 
sands  were  running  low,  the  Duchess  had  been 

[32] 


recalled  from  the  nunnery  where  she  had  lived 
so  many  years  sequestrated,  and  the  brilliant 
Isotta  had  gone  forth  reluctantly  from  the  Pa- 
lazzo, followed  by  a  train  of  dissolute  attend- 
ants and  many  brawny  porters  bearing  chests. 
Orsino  was  going  to  make  a  very  reputable 
end,  it  appeared,  to  a  not  very  reputable  life. 
Large  sums  were  given  daily  to  the  poor.  He 
was  to  be  reconciled  before  he  died  (so  went 
the  rumor)  to  his  old  enemy  Bartolomeo  della 
Scala,  whom  he  had  driven  out  of  the  town  in 
old  years,  and  who  had  since  crossed  him  in 
love  and  war,  and  outrivalled  him  in  splen- 
dour of  living  and  ostentatious  patronage  of 
art. 

Towards  the  end  of  January,  as  Sanazarro 
(for  he  was  the  sculptor)  was  passing  through 
the  vestibule  after  his  day's  work,  he  was  aware 
of  an  unusual  bustle  in  the  palace,  and  saw 
many  shaven  heads  coming  and  going  between 
the  door  and  the  quarter  of  the  house  where 
the  Duke's  sick-room  was  situated.  Priests 
and  monks  kept  passing  out  and  in,  by  pairs  or 
little  companies,  talking  away  to  each  other 
with  much  eagerness  and  a  great  show  of  se- 
crecy.    Sanazarro  was  not  used  to  see  so  many 

[33] 


visitors  in  this  sad  house,  and  stood  aside  be- 
tween two  pillars  to  see  if  there  was  any  end 
to  the  thoroughfare.  "Death  must  be  draw- 
ing near,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "when  so 
many  crows  are  gathered  together."  And  yet 
they  all  looked  merry  enough  and  hopeful; 
and  what  he  could  catch  of  their  talk,  was  not 
what  would  be  looked  for  in  the  mouths  of 
persons  leaving  a  perilous  sick  bed.  Two 
words  recurred  so  often  that  he  ended  by  put- 
ting them  together.  If  he  did  not  hear  "mira- 
cle," he  heard  "tomorrow;"  if  no  one  said 
"tomorrow,"  some  one  would  say  "miracle." 
It  looked  as  if  they  expected  some  wonderful 
event  on  the  next  day;  perhaps  the  restoration 
of  Orsino's  health.  And  yet  he  had  touched 
a  sight  of  relics,  since  first  he  fell  sick,  without 
much  benefit;  and  seen  so  many  doctors,  that 
you  would  have  thought  there  [were]  no  more 
left  in  Italy  for  him  to  consult. 

At  last,  there  was  an  end  of  priests  and 
monks;  the  palace  seemed  to  have  disgorged 
itself  of  ecclesiastics;  and  as  no  more  came 
from  without  to  take  their  places,  Sanazarro 
quitted  his  post  of  watch  and  went  down  the 
street  with  that  something  of  a  swagger  that 

[34] 


befitted  his  beautiful  person,  his  fine  clothes 
and  his  growing  repute  as  an  artist.  "A  mira- 
cle tomorrow!"  he  thought  to  himself,  with  a 
little  smile.  "And  a  very  good  time  for  it  — 
unless  it  were  better  the  day  after!" 

It  was  sunset  when  he  got  out  of  the  city 
gate.  The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close  in  a 
sort  of  sober  splendour,  without  much  colour, 
but  with  a  wonderful  parade  of  light.  The 
western  sky  was  all  one  space  of  clear  gold; 
the  eastern  sky  was  tinged  with  a  faint  green 
behind  certain  purple  hills;  overhead,  a  star 
or  two  had  come  forth  and  were  already  large 
and  bright.  The  undulating  olive  grounds 
lay  about  him  in  blue  shadow,  and  grew  dark- 
er moment  by  moment.  He  sat  down  by  a 
wayside  crucifix,  and  fell  to  thinking  of  many 
things,  and,  I  daresay,  among  others,  of  the 
nunnery  in  the  hills,  and  the  sloping  garden 
where  Ippolita  used  to  walk.  He  had  seen 
her,  that  day,  and  saluted  her  in  silence  as 
usual;  for  many  days,  these  two  had  lived  un- 
der the  same  roof,  without  the  exchange  of  a 
word  or  so  much  as  a  look  of  intelligence. 
As  he  thus  sat  brooding,  there  was  a  faint 
sound  far  away  upon  the  road,  that  grew  rap- 

[35] 


idly  louder,  until  Bartolomeo  della  Scala 
came  up  between  the  olive  woods,  with  many 
horsemen  about  him.  He  stopped  as  he  came 
alongside  of  Sanazarro;  for  the  fantastic  dress 
of  the  sculptor  made  him  easily  known  even 
at  dusk;  and  taking  of]f  his  hat  with  ironical 
courtesy,  demanded  how  it  went  with  his  pres- 
ent patron. 

"Why,  my  lord,"  answered  Sanazarro,  "it 
goes  with  him  even  as  I  would  have  it  go  with 
you,  and  all  other  my  good  friends  and  pa- 
trons. He  is  like  to  outstrip  us.  He  will 
have  the  choice  of  rooms  before  us,  my  lord, 
in  Paradise." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Bartolomeo,  "I  am  over- 
joyed to  hear  it.  Master  Sanazarro.  See  that 
he  does  not  outstrip  you  in  yet  another  way. 
See  that  you  have  the  tomb  ready  for  the  good 
man.  I  would  not  have  him  begin  the  new 
life  in  an  ill-aired  bed.  I  pray  God"  —  and 
here  he  crossed  himself  with  much  appear- 
ance of  devotion  —  "I  pray  God,  although  the 
time  be  short,  I  may  yet  have  a  chance  of  send- 
ing some  one  of  his  house  before  him  to  warm 
the  sheets  somewhat." 

"You  had  best  not  be  over-confident,"  re- 

[36] 


turned  Sanazarro;  for  he  was  growing  irritat- 
ed. Little  as  he  loved  Orsino,  he  was  a  better 
patron  than  La  Scala;  and  this  he  knew  well, 
for  he  had  done  work  for  both  in  his  time. 
''You  had  best  not  be  over-confident.  There 
is  a  talk  of  miracles  in  the  Palace." 

"Truly,"  returned  Eartolomeo,  "I  am  not 
afraid  of  Miracles.  If  God  is  willing  to  in- 
terfere, so  am  I.  Miracles,  Master  Sanazar- 
ro, are  packed  now-a-days  in  the  holds  of  ships 
for  Venice,  and  come  post  over  the  hills  at  a 
horseman's  girdle.  Storms  may  wreck  the 
ship,  and  then  God  help  the  poor  miracle  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Aye  —  and  strong  men 
can  stop  the  post." 

And  so  saying,  and  with  another  ironical 
obeisance,  Bartolomeo  wheeled  his  party 
round  and  went  ofif  by  the  way  he  had  come. 
He  left  Sanazarro's  head  pretty  busy;  it  was 
plain  that  La  Scala  understood  the  meaning  of 
his  own  random  answer  better  than  he  did 
himself;  and  as  he  thought  the  thing  over,  it 
became  plain  also  that  the  occasion  of  this 
expected  miracle,  whether  new  medicine  or 
old  and  holy  relic,  was  on  the  way  that  night 
from  Venice,  and  it  was  to  intercept  it  that  La 

[37] 


Scala  scoured  the  roads  at  evening  with  his 
horsemen.  Sanazarro  did  not  love  the  Duke, 
as  I  have  said;  but  neither  did  he  altogether 
hate  him.  He  was  a  troubled  recollection  to 
him,  as  of  a  man  sick  and  captious,  but  not 
without  moments  of  graceful  complaisance, 
and  instinct  with  an  exquisite  sensibility  to  art, 
such  as  the  true  artist  might  imagine  in  a  pa- 
tron whilst  he  dreamed.  So  far,  the  scale  lay 
in  favour  of  Orsino.  But  there  was  another 
consideration  as  the  reader  knows,  there  was 
more  perilous  stufif  in  the  cauldron.     .     . 

Sanazarro  went  back  to  the  Palace  in  a 
humour  of  lowering  doubt;  and  meeting  Ip- 
polita's  maid  on  the  stair,  he  wrote  a  few  lines 
on  a  tablet  and  gave  it  her  to  take  to  her  mis- 
tress. She  came  to  him  where  he  waited,  in 
an  anteroom,  and  gave  him  her  hand  simply. 
His  heart  was  in  his  mouth,  and  he  dared 
scarcely  trust  himself  to  take  the  hand  she  of- 
fered. Her  eyes  told  him  plainly  that  she  still 
loved.  They  stood  thus  for  some  seconds, 
looking  on  each  other  sadly.  Then  Ippolita 
withdrew  her  hand. 

"Dear  friend,"  she  said,  "we  must  be  brave 
and  faithful.     What  would  you  with  me?" 

[38] 


He  told  her  all  that  he  had  seen  and  heard, 
and  what  had  been  his  own  conclusion. 

*'You  have  guessed  aright,"  she  said.  "There 
must  be  treachery  in  the  house,  since  La  Scala 
knows  so  much." 

"Where  there  are  so  many  priests,  there 
must  be  some  treason,"  replied  Sanazarro. 
"Let  that  rest.  Time  presses.  What  is  to  be 
done?" 

"There  are  few  men  in  the  house,"  she 
answered.  "Cosmo  is  gone  westward  with  a 
great  party  to  divert  attention;  that  was 
thought  more  politic  than  an  escort.  The  Ma- 
jor Domo  must  go  to  meet  the  messenger  with 
as  strong  a  following  as  he  can  raise;  and  as 
he  is  a  weak  man  and  not  wise,  you  will  go 
with  him." 

"Death  of  my  body,  Signora,  you  must 
think  me  very  good!"  he  cried. 

"I  know  you  are  very  good,"  she  answered 
simply. 

Sanazarro  put  his  hat  on,  which  was  of 
course  against  all  etiquette,  and  held  his  hand 
out  to  her  with  a  smile.  "You  are  right,  good 
angel,"  he  said.     "I  shall  go;  I  do  not  wish 

[39] 


his  death,  God  knows;  and  he  shall  have  the 
medicine  if  I  can  get  it  for  him." 

"It  is  not  medicine,"  she  replied;  *'it  is 
water  from  the  holy  Jordan."  Sanazarro 
laughed  outright:  he  felt  more  pleasure  in  the 
mission  after  that. 

Ippolita  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  with 
a  caress  that  went  all  through  him.  "Dear 
friend,  pardon  me,"  she  said.  "You  must  un- 
cover before  I  call  the  Major  Domo." 

The  blood  flew  into  Sanazarro's  face,  as  he 
obeyed. 

"Nay,  dear,"  she  said  appealingly,  "it  is 
not  of  my  will,  it  is  what  must  be  between  us. 
God  knows  to  which  of  us  it  is  most  hard." 

"I  do  not  complain,"  he  said  (but  his  voice 
was  not  his  own  voice).  "I  am  a  poor  artist 
only,  although  I  come  of  no  mean  blood.  Your 
Grace—" 

"You  are  not  generous,  Sanazarro."  And 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

Sanazarro's  conscience  smote  him,  but  be- 
fore he  could  command  himself  enough  to 
speak,  she  had  summoned  the  Major  Domo 
and  their  privacy  was  at  an  end. 

There  was  such  a  devil  of  remorse  and  irri- 

[40] 


tation  in  Sanazarro's  heart  that  night,  that  he 
could  have  fought  with  his  born  brother.  The 
small  body  of  troopers,  led  by  the  Major 
Domo  and  himself,  met  the  messenger  coming 
leisurely  down  the  road  about  the  stroke  of 
midnight,  some  fifteen  miles  from  town.  They 
made  him  quicken  his  pace;  poor  fellow,  he 
could  scarce  command  his  horse  for  terror,  for 
he  was  noways  martial  and  did  not  relish  the 
idea  of  bare  swords.  About  a  mile  on  that 
side  of  the  town.  La  Scala  fell  suddenly  upon 
them  in  the  darkness.  The  two  troops  went 
together  at  full  gallop  with  a  shout.  But  the 
Orsini  were  of  the  lighter  metal,  and  went 
down  before  the  others.  The  old  Major  Do- 
mo was  cut  to  the  saddle  by  Bartolomeo.  San- 
azarro  felt  his  horse  fall,  and  then  a  storm  of 
hoofs  go  over  him,  —  and  then  no  more.  The 
rest  of  the  party  was  broken  up  and  scattered 
like  chaf¥;  they  were  pursued  far  down  the 
road,  till  they  were  glad  to  throw  themselves 
from  their  horses  and  take  to  the  brush  like 
hares.  Young  La  Scala,  Gian  Pietro  the  beau- 
tiful, as  people  called  him  for  his  fair  body, 
dismounted  and  went  about  the  road  on  foot, 
dispatching    such    of    the   wounded    as    still 

[41] 


showed  signs  of  life.  One  man,  whom  he  de- 
tected crawling  away  toward  the  roadside, 
wailed  most  piteously  for  quarter.  "I  have 
what  you  want,"  he  cried  (for  it  was  the  mes- 
senger himself)  ;  "I  can  give  you  the  bottle, 
good  gentleman.  Spare  my  life,  and  you  shall 
have  the  bottle."  Gian  Pietro  was  delighted; 
he  got  the  bottle  first  and  then  passed  his 
sword  through  the  poor  messenger's  body. 
The  party  was  called  back  from  the  pursuit 
by  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  and  they  returned 
in  great  exaltation  of  spirit  towards  the  town. 
Meanwhile  Orsino  was  preparing  himself 
against  the  miracle  of  the  morning.  He  had 
fasted  faithfully  all  that  day,  and  he  now  sat 
up  talking  earnestly  with  his  spiritual  director. 
By  the  order  of  his  physician,  he  had  just 
swallowed  a  little  wine.  His  eyes  shone  with 
a  singular  lustre;  the  skin  of  his  face  was 
stretched  tightly  over  his  prominent  cheek- 
bones and  high  forehead;  there  was  a  drawing 
round  about  his  lips,  moreover,  that  had  the 
effect  from  a  little  distance  of  a  permanent 
smile,  and  gave  him  a  crafty  treacherous  look 
that  was  well  enough  in  harmony  with  his 
fast  career.     For  the  Duke  had  been  a  man 

[42] 


of  signal  wickedness;  there  was  much  blood 
upon  his  hands;  he  had  been  faithless,  cruel, 
dissolute,  and  rapacious.  It  was  no  wonder 
that  he  professed  himself  doubtful  of  a  miracle 
in  his  behalf,  laying  one  thin  hand,  as  he  spoke, 
on  his  director's  arm. 

"When  I  look  back  on  my  past  life,"  he 
said,  "it  seems  to  me  impious,  father,  and  in  a 
manner  a  sacrilege,  to  give  the  water  of  this 
blessed  river  to  so  vile  a  sinner.  But  God 
reads  the  heart,  father — God  knows  the  in- 
most thought.  And  if  I  desire  to  be  restored, 
it  is  that  I  may  undo  some  of  the  ill  I  have 

wrought.    There  is  my  wife 

"I  shall  make  her  amends  in  the  future  for  all 
she  has  suffered  from  me  in  the  past;  she  shall 
have  one  of  my  castles  and  a  fourth  portion 
of  my  revenue.  She  shall  keep  a  court,  if  she 
will." 

"This  is  nothing  to  the  purpose,  son.  You 
must  be  a  good  husband  to  her." 

"I  will  be  a  good  husband  to  her,"  returned 
the  Duke  submissively.  "And  then,"  he  con- 
tinued, "there  is  Bartolomeo.  I  have  injured 
him  grievously,  and  in  so  doing,  I  have  hurt 
my  own  family  and  wronged  the  interests  of 

[43] 


the  town.     There  must  be  peace  between  us." 

"There  must  be  peace,  my  son,"  echoed  the 
director  solemnly. 

"There  shall  be,  father,"  said  the  Duke  de- 
cisively. "And  then  there  are  the  lands  I  took 
from  the  Cafarelli." 

" — And  the  pictures  you  took  from  the  con- 
vent of  Santa  Felice." 

" — And  my  brother's  son  whom  I  have  hith- 
erto defrauded." 

" — And  the  heretics  whom  hitherto  you 
have  not  persecuted  with  godly  zeal." 

" — And  the  heretics,  father;  they  shall  not 
be  tolerated  one  day  longer." 

"I  suspect  Sanazarro,"  said  the  director. 

"He  is  an  artist,"  replied  the  Duke. 

"Nevertheless,"  continued  the  priest,  "my 
conscience  will  not  be  easy  until,  with  your 
grace's  permission,  I  have  examined  him  a  lit- 
tle on  the  rack." 

"Passion  of  God!"  cried  the  Duke,  "he  shall 
finish  my  tomb  first!" 

The  director  held  up  his  hand,  and  regard- 
ed his  penitent  with  a  terrible  severity  of 
countenance.  "My  son,"  he  said,  "my  son, 
you  are  beside  yourself."     The  Duke  clasped 

[44] 


his  hands  and  asked  forgiveness  audibly 
through  the  intercession  of  a  score  of  saints 
and  the  blessed  Virgin.  *'You  shall  have  the 
racking  of  him  when  you  will,"  he  said;  "and 
you  may  burn  him  afterwards,  if  so  the 
Church  desires.  Fear  not,  father,  I  shall  do 
my  duty,  all  carnal  affections  set  aside." 

Just  about  this  time  (for  it  was  now  late, 
or  rather  early)  a  fugitive  found  his  way  back 
from  the  rout  of  the  Major  Domo's  expedi- 
tion, and  was  brought  up  with  a  white  face  to 
where  the  Duchess  sat  waiting  impatiently 
for  news.  When  she  heard  what  the  man  had 
to  say,  she  became  as  white  as  he. 

"And  Sanazarro?"  she  asked. 

"Dead,  Signora,"  said  the  man.  "I  was 
the  only  one  who  escaped.  They  are  devils 
incarnate  —  they  would  let  none  of  us  away." 

"This  will  be  a  great  pain  to  the  Duke," 
she  said.  "His  tomb  cannot  be  finished  by 
the  same  hand."  And  she  laughed  a  little 
with  rather  a  terrifying  laugh.  Then  she 
gave  orders  that  every  man  in  the  Palazzo 
capable  of  bearing  arms,  should  go  forth  and 
bring  in  the  wounded;  and  no  sooner  was  she 

[45] 


alone,  than  she  fell  against  the  wall  and 
fainted. 

Some  rumour  of  this  conversation  came  in- 
to the  Duke's  room  and  disturbed  his  repent- 
ant ecstasies.  The  director  opened  the  door 
by  his  command,  and  called  out  to  know  if 
anything  were  amiss ;  but  as  there  was  no  one 
in  the  antechamber  but  the  Duchess,  and  she 
was  already  insensible,  he  concluded  their 
alarm  had  been  vain;  and  priest  and  penitent 
fell  once  more  to  their  exercises. 

''Beyond  question,"  said  Orsino,  "nothing 
can  fall  out  but  with  God's  will." 

"He  holds  the  earth,  my  son,  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand  —  blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Lord."  And  the  priest  crossed  himself  de- 
voutly. 

"He  will  not  refuse  a  repentant  sinner?" 
asked  Orsino. 

"Not  if  he  repent  truly,"  answered  the 
priest. 

"And  what  are  the  signs  of  a  true  peni- 
tence? If  it  be  enough  to  abhor  vehemently 
all  our  former  sins,  and  thirst  after  a  renewal 
of  life,  not  for  further  occasion  of  pleasure, 
but  that  we  may  undo  the  evil  we  have  al- 

[46] 


ready  brought  about,  then  am  I  truly  peni- 
tent." 

"You  must  do  more  than  that,  my  son.  You 
must  redeem  the  past  by  suitable  penance." 

"Father,  I  will  become  a  monk  and  beg 
my  bread  from  door  to  door,  with  a  cord  about 
my  waist." 

"You  forget,  my  son;  you  are  married," 
objected  the  priest. 

"I  will  become  a  monk  so  soon  as  my  wife 
dies,  then,"  returned  the  Duke. 

The  confessor  blew  his  nose;  it  was  some- 
what difficult  to  know  what  to  say  to  this 
amended  proposition;  so  he  blew  his  nose  as 
I  say,  and  took  up  another  subject. 

"You  must  become  veritably  reconciled  to 
the  Lord  La  Scala." 

"Indeed,  there  is  nothing  I  desire  more  fer- 
vently," replied  the  Duke.  "I  would  fain 
leave  this  town  in  possession  of  quiet  and  plen- 
ty. I,  who  have  so  often  carried  war  through 
its  streets,  I  would  fain  show  to  all  men  the 
example  of  placability  and  Christian  come- 
liness of  behaviour.  I  will  lead  in  La  Scala 
by  the  hand,  and  ask  pardon  for  all  my  injur- 
ies on  my  knees  in  the  public  market  place. 

[47] 


I  would  be  wept  by  the  people  when  I  come 
to  die,  and  be  called  'the  good  Duke'  for  years 
and  years  thereafter.  O  father,  it  changes  all 
a  man's  fancies,  let  him  but  once  see  death  in 
the  face;  there  is  a  look  in  that  white  counte- 
nance that  sobers  him  of  all  his  vanities  and 
notions.  I  would  sooner  have  a  good  con- 
science, as  God  sees  me,  than  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  statues,  or  the  rarest  manuscript,  or 
ten  strong  towns.  Father,  my  penitence  is 
real,  is  it  not?     Let  us  pray  that  it  is." 

While  they  were  both  praying,  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  a  valet  came  in  with  a 
bottle  and  a  folded  letter. 

"You  will  read  it  for  me,  father,"  said  Or- 
sino. 

The  priest  glanced  his  eye  over  the  paper, 
and  then  crossed  himself.  "My  son,"  he  said, 
"the  way  is  paven  for  your  reconciliation. 
God  is  willing  to  spare  you,  being  truly  peni- 
tent, all  needless  humbling;  and  has  moved 
my  Lord  Bartolomeo  to  take  the  first  step. 
For  listen  how  he  writes :  ^My  Lord,  certain 
of  my  men  have  overthrown  certain  of  yours 
this  evening,  in  fair  fight.  From  one  of  those 
who  fell,  they  took  a  bottle,  which,  upon  my 

[48] 


learning  that  it  contained  water  from  the  Jor- 
dan for  the  healing  of  your  disease,  I  herewith 
return  to  its  rightful  owner.  I  do  not  make 
war  upon  sick  men.^  Let  us  give  thanks  to 
God,"  added  the  priest. 

But  Orsino  was  in  no  humour  to  thank  God. 
"Who  brought  this  pasquil,  Lippo?"  he  de- 
manded angrily  of  the  valet. 

"My  lord,  it  was  my  lord  Gian  Pietro  with 
his  own  hand,"  replied  the  servant. 

"Perdition  on  his  head!  Over  the  window 
with  it.  Passion  of  God,  do  you  hear  me, 
priest?     Over  the  window  with  the  thing!" 

"My  lord,  this  water  from  the  holy  riv- 


er—" 


"Water  from  the  accursed  bottom  of  Hell!" 
"My  lord  Duke!"  expostulated  the  priest. 
"My  lord  Devily!"  retorted  Orsino.     "Give 

the  flask  to  me." 

"Nay,  my  lord,  not  so:  it  is  an  holy  relic." 
"An   holy   relic   of    Saint-Gian-Pietro!     I 

will  lay  my  living  soul,  it  is  five  parts  poison." 
"My  lord,  you  wrong  yourself  in  judging 

so  hardly  of  others.     I  will  drink  one  half  of 

it  gladly,  to  set  your  evil  phantasy  at  rest.    Is 

[49] 


this  all  your  penitence?  It  seems  somewhat 
short  of  breath." 

Orsino  was  smitten  with  remorse  at  these 
words,  and  fell  industriously  to  praying  and 
beating  his  bosom;  and  as  in  the  course  of 
these  improving  exercises,  he  came  somewhat 
to  himself,  he  was  astonished  to  find  that,  in 
the  heat  of  his  passion,  he  had  turned  round 
in  bed  and  was  now  sitting  with  his  feet  hang- 
ing over  the  edge  and  his  back  unsupported. 
For  near  a  month,  he  had  been  too  much  par- 
alysed to  make  so  great  a  movement. 

"Good  father,"  he  cried  —  he  had  fallen 
back  again  into  his  whining  vein  —  "Good 
father,  how  can  this  be?  I  have  moved  my- 
self in  bed  —  I  am  half  out  of  it.  Christ  be 
merciful  to  me  a  sinnerl  —  What  should  this 
portend?  For  the  love  of  God,  father,  lift 
me  back  into  my  place." 

"It  is  a  sign  to  you,  my  son,"  said  the  confes- 
sor, "what  you  may  hope  through  the  blessed 
instrumentality  of  this  water.  If  even  its 
presence  in  the  room  with  you,  has  had  this 
potently  restorative  influence,  what  may  you 
not  hope  when  you  partake  of  it,  fasting  from 
bread  and  with  a  clean  conscience!" 

[50] 


"I  should  desire,  nevertheless,"  said  the 
Duke,  leaning  back  again  in  his  former  atti- 
tude, and  closing  his  eyes  with  a  look  of  lux- 
urious wiliness,  not  unlike  a  cat's,  "I  should 
desire,  nevertheless,  that  you  should  do  as  you 
suggested,  and  drink  the  half  of  it  this  even- 
ing. My  life  is  precious;  I  have  a  duty  to 
the  world,  were  it  only  to  right  the  wrongs 
that  I  have  done.  I  could  then  drink  the  oth- 
er half,  with  a  clear  conscience  as  you  say, 
tomorrow." 

The  ecclesiastic  uncorked  the  bottle  and 
poured  the  half  of  it  into  a  glass. 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Orsino,  "put  that  back 
again  a  moment  and  shake  it  up.  The  poison 
might  be  precipitated  to  the  bottom,"  he  add- 
ed knowingly. 

The  priest  did  as  he  was  told,  and  drank  off 
the  water  without  fear.  He  made  a  wry  face. 
"It  is  bitter  indeed  in  the  mouth,"  he  said; 
"but  after  it  is  down,  sweeter  than  honey." 

Orsino  watched  him  sharply  for  a  moment 
or  so,  and  then  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  At  least 
it  was  not  immediately  fatal.  "And  now, 
father,  I  shall  go  to  sleep,"  he  said :  "We  are 
never  more  sinless  than  when  we  slumber. 

[SI] 


You  will  watch  and  pray  for  me  in  the  ora- 
tory there.  And  keep  the  curtain  looped  —  I 
would  not  willingly  feel  myself  alone,  when  I 
awake." 


Sanazarro  had  made  a  rare  escape.  He 
was  stunned  and  badly  bruised,  but  had  not  a 
bone  broken  in  his  whole  body;  and  the  sur- 
geon who  examined  him  did  not  know  wheth- 
er to  marvel  more  at  the  slightness  of  the 
injuries,  considering  how  they  had  been  got,  or 
at  the  easy  way  in  which  the  sculptor  bore 
them,  as  grave  as  they  were.  But  Sanazarro's 
body  was  of  iron;  the  man  who  did  such  great 
work  when  he  was  in  his  seventh  decade  was 
not  likely  to  fever  or  sicken  of  a  few  bruises 
at  six  and  twenty.  You  may  imagine  how 
glad  Ippolita  was  to  hear  this  news,  and  how 
earnestly  she  longed  to  visit  Sanazarro's  bed- 
side. Two  or  three  more  wounded  had  been 
found  still  alive;  and  she  went  to  the  bed-side 
of  each  of  these  and  sat  a  little  and  gave  them 
cordials  and  good  words.  She  was  very  glad, 
as  she  drew  near  Sanazarro's  chamber  door, 
that  she  had  ever  made  it  her  habit  to  go 

[52] 


about  freely  amongst  those  who  had  been 
wounded  in  her  husband's  service.  It  had 
been  heretofore  an  irksome  and  distasteful 
duty  with  her;  but  now  virtue  was  recom- 
pensed, and  she  could  go  to  Sanazarro  with- 
out fear  of  scandal.  He  turned  round  in  bed 
and  began  to  ask  pardon  eagerly  for  his  cruel 
behaviour  of  the  night  before;  but  she  stopped 
him  at  once,  telling  him  not  to  spoil  their  few 
quiet  moments  by  such  inharmonious  recollec- 
tions, and  sitting  down  beside  him,  took  his 
hand  in  one  of  hers  and  began  to  stroke  it  with 
the  other.  Tears  began  to  gather  in  the  sculp- 
tor's eyes  and  follow  each  other  down  his 
cheeks. 

"Why  do  you  weep?"  she  asked. 

"Do  not  think  I  am  unhappy,  my  soul,"  he 
answered. 

She  stooped  over  and  kissed  his  forehead 
as  he  lay.  "That  is  for  your  virtue  of  last 
night,"  she  said,  with  a  smile;  "that  is  because 
you  risked  your  life  to  save  Orsino's."  And 
she  sat  beside  him  holding  his  hand  in  silence, 
until  they  heard  her  woman  coming  with  a 
cordial  for  which  she  had  been  sent;  then 
Ippolita  stood  up  and  began  to  question  him 

[53] 


about  the  skirmish,  as  she  might  have  ques- 
tioned any  other  of  those  who  had  escaped. 

All  that  day,  Orsino  narrowly  scrutinised 
the  countenance  of  his  confessor,  and,  as  even- 
ing drew  on  and  there  was  still  no  sign  of  any 
ill  effect,  began  to  prepare  himself  for  the  re- 
ception of  the  miraculous  water.  His  physi- 
cian had  judged  it  best  that  it  should  be  taken 
at  night  along  with  a  powerful  opiate,  and 
that  Orsino  should  not  try  to  move  until  after 
he  had  slept  ofif  the  one  and  given  the  other 
time  to  visit  all  parts  of  his  body  with  its  heal- 
ing influence;  and  though  the  confessor  had 
objected  to  this,  as  it  was  a  sort  of  practical 
infidelity  in  God's  miraculous  power,  and  an 
error  in  reasoning,  besides,  so  to  judge  of  a 
remedy  that  was  purely  supernatural  as  if  it 
were  a  natural  drug;  still  Orsino,  out  of  a 
desire  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  had  de- 
termined to  combine  the  practical  wisdom  of 
the  leech  with  the  sanctity  of  the  water.  As 
the  moment  drew  near,  he  grew  more  and  more 
solicitous  as  to  his  spiritual  disposition.  He 
and  the  confessor  were  never  weary  of  com- 
paring notes,  as  to  the  exact  degree  of  faith 
necessary  in  the  recipient  of  miraculous  grace, 

[54] 


and  the  exact  degree  to  which  this  signal  pen- 
itent had  yet  attained.  Thus,  the  hours 
passed,  in  prayer,  in  doctrinal-disquisition, 
and  in  the  preparation  and  signature  of  pa- 
pers about  property,  of  which  the  Duke  had 
wrongfully  possessed  himself,  and  which  he 
now  promised  to  restore,  if  the  miracle  fell 
out  according  to  expectation.  There  was  but 
one  difference  between  the  pair.  The  eccle- 
siastic tried  to  convince  Orsino  that  he  should 
restore  the  property  at  once,  in  token  of  his 
zealous  purpose  to  amend  and  make  the  future 
abundantly  redeem  the  past.  But  the  Duke 
would  not  hear  of  this;  there  must  be  a  quid 
pro  quo  in  the  transaction,  he  averred;  he 
would  only  humiliate  himself  before  the  world 
and  become  the  mark  of  men's  pointing  fin- 
gers, he  explained,  if  he  restored  all  that  he 
had  won  through  a  rough,  arduous  life,  and 
the  miracle  were  not  forthcoming  in  the  end. 
And  so  the  priest  desisted  with  a  sigh,  lest  he 
should  lose  what  he  had  already  gained  by 
trying  for  too  much  more. 

By  ten  o'clock,  all  the  retainers  were  at 
prayer  in  the  unfinished  chapel  of  the  palace; 
the  townspeople  were  summoned  by  the  great 

[55] 


bell  to  the  cathedral ;  each  man  carried  a  taper 
and  went  bare-foot;  there  was  much  outward 
solemnity  and  devotion,  although  when  whis- 
perers got  together  in  the  crowd,  you  might 
have  heard  a  good  deal  of  incredulous  wit 
about  the  miracle,  and  Saint-Orsino  (as  they 
took  to  calling  him),  and  the  Jordan  water. 
The  Duke  confessed  himself,  received  plenary 
absolution  and  partook  of  the  sacrament,  with 
so  much  enthusiasm  and  his  fancy  running 
so  high  at  the  moment,  that  if  you  were  to  be- 
lieve himself,  a  miracle  had  already  been 
wrought  in  his  behalf.  Then  he  drank  off  the 
remainder  of  the  blessed  water,  the  doctor 
administered  the  opiate,  the  lights  were  shad- 
ed, the  priest  fell  to  silent  prayer  in  the  ora- 
tory, and  the  penitent  was  soon  asleep  in  hope 
of  a  miraculous  restoration  on  the  morrow. 

At  an  early  hour,  as  the  priest  was  still  mut- 
tering prayers  with  a  somewhat  sleepy  fer- 
vency, he  felt  a  hand  laid  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  beheld  Orsino  standing  by  him  in  a  bed 
gown,  his  face  lit  up  with  joy  as  by  sunlight. 
He  had  raised  himself  and  walked  thither, 
without  help.  Both  knelt  a  while  before  the 
altar  and  returned  thanks.     Then  the  physi- 

[56] 


cian  was  summoned,  and  the  Duchess  and  all 
the  retainers  and  servants  of  the  palace.  The 
bell  of  the  chapel  passed  the  signal  to  the  great 
bell  of  the  Cathedral.  The  news  flew  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  from  house  to  house,  from 
street  to  street.  Those  who  were  devout,  went 
and  prostrated  themselves  in  the  churches. 
Those  who  were  loyal  or  politic,  hung  their 
houses  with  rich  carpets  and  cast  flowers  upon 
the  pavement.  Those  who  were  simply  indif- 
ferent went,  nevertheless,  and  drank  wine  at 
the  public  fountain.  Those  who  were  incred- 
ulous shook  their  heads  and  winked  and  made 
epigrams.  But  none  among  all  who  were  as- 
tonished, were  astonished  so  much  as  Bartolo- 
meo  della  Scala  and  his  son,  the  beautiful 
Gian  Pietro,  who  had  carefully  emptied  the 
bottle  and  filled  it  again  with  putrid  water 
from  the  town  moat.     .     . 


Nearly  a  month  went  by  without  much  ac- 
cident. Sanazarro  worked  on  doggedly  at 
the  tomb.  Orsino  continued  to  mend  and 
gather  strength;  and  as  he  mended,  he  was 
ever  less  with  the  priest  and  more  with  his 

[57] 


uncle  Cosmo.  I  could  never  hear  that  any 
but  the  most  inconsiderable  property  was  re- 
stored; but  what  was  done  in  this  way,  was 
done  with  all  the  ostentation  in  the  world. 
At  last,  came  the  day  for  the  public  thanksgiv- 
ing. Standing  before  the  great  door  of  the 
cathedral,  Orsino  confessed  with  a  loud  voice 
his  sins  against  God  and  the  townspeople,  and 
vowed  a  different  life  in  the  future.  He 
vowed  also  to  lead  back  Bartolomeo  by  the 
hand,  into  the  town  from  which  he  had  wrong- 
fully expelled  him  years  before.  The  coun- 
try should  be  no  more  wasted  by  this  insensate 
feud.  Peace,  plenty  and  equal  rule,  in  as  far 
as  it  lay  in  his  hands  and  in  as  far  as  God 
should  help  him  —  this  was  what  he  prom- 
ised to  his  subjects  on  that  great  occasion. 

And  there  the  thing  rested.  Many  golden 
words,  some  reforms  in  detail,  a  milder  and 
perhaps  a  more  equitable  executive  in  all  the 
states,  and  no  more.  It  is  true  that  there  were 
continual  preparations  being  made  for  the  re- 
ception of  Bartolomeo;  it  is  true  that  a  day 
had  been  fixed  on  which  the  Duke  was  to  go 
to  visit  him  in  sackcloth  and  ask  pardon  for 
his  misdeeds;  and  true  also  that  Bartolomeo 

[58] 


had  agreed  to  be  entertained  on  the  night  fol- 
lowing at  Orsino's  palace.  But  the  poor  con- 
fessor was  not  satisfied;  he  began  to  guess 
shrewdly  that  all  his  sleepless  nights  had  been 
somewhat  thrown  away;  that  Orsino's  health 
had  been  restored,  but  not  his  heart  renovated. 
One  day,  he  lost  patience  and  broke  out. 

"My  lord,"  he  said,  "you  were  raised  some 
time  ago  by  a  miracle  from  the  bed  of  death. 
Tempt  not  the  living  God,  lest  He  cut  you  off 
as  suddenly  and  strangely  as  He  raised  you 
up." 

The  Duke  pressed  down  the  tip  of  his  nose 
with  his  forefinger  and  puffed  out  his  cheeks; 
his  face  became  the  very  picture  of  humour- 
ous incredulity. 

"Why,  as  to  miracle,"  he  said,  "as  to  mira- 
cle, father,  let  us  not  insist  too  far.  It  has  a 
good  sound;  I  would  have  the  people  continue 
to  speak  of  it;  I  will  even  strike  a  medal  and 
found  a  chapel  in  its  commemoration.  But  on 
a  little  thought,  dear  father,  you  may  remem- 
ber that  I  could  move  the  night  before  the 
miracle.^'' 

The  priest  thereupon  went  away,  and  I  think 
he  had  some  matter  for  reflexion  as  he  went. 

[59] 


This  was  a  very  sad  end  for  so  glorious  a 
story,  was  it  not? 

This  little  bit  of  conversation  may  be  dated, 
I  believe,  the  day  before  Orsino's  visit  to  Delia 
Scala's  castle.  If  so,  it  would  be  on  the  next 
forenoon  that  Sanazarro  threw  open  his  work- 
shop for  inspection;  for  the  sculptor  was  very 
absolute,  and  played  Michael-Angelo  on  a 
small  scale  in  the  palace:  it  was  not  every  day 
of  the  week  that  an  eager  patron  was  allowed 
to  mark  the  progress  of  his  statues,  as  they 
grew  towards  shape  and  significance.  And  so 
when  Orsino  heard  the  good  news,  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  put  off  the  period  of  his  departure 
by  some  hours,  and  go  immediately  to  the 
studio  with  his  wife,  his  uncle,  bandy-legged 
Cosmo,  and  a  due  following  of  gentlemen. 
The  Duke,  as  I  have  said,  had  a  refined  and 
passionate  appreciation  of  good  art;  and,  as 
the  sculptor  had  surpassed  himself  in  the  de- 
sign and,  so  far  as  it  was  finished,  in  the 
execution,  his  ecstasy  was  so  natural  and  un- 
controlled that  both  Sanazarro  and  the  Duch- 
ess blushed  for  pride  and  pleasure.  Sudden- 
ly, as  he  was  going  from  one  part  to  another, 
full  of  graceful  praise,  fine  appreciation,  and 

[60] 


valuable  criticism,  he  stayed  for  a  moment  be- 
fore one  of  the  larger  figures. 

"This  is  the  Duchess,"  said  he;  and  he 
looked  sharply  at  the  pair.  Sanazarro  pre- 
served an  imperturbable  countenance,  but  Ip- 
polita  was  plainly  discomposed  under  his  eyes. 
The  Duke  put  his  arm  through  the  sculptor's 
in  the  most  friendly  manner:  "This  is  a  very 
graceful  compliment,  Signor,"  he  said.  "In 
the  Duchess's  name  and  in  my  own,  I  offer  you 
all  thanks.  And  now  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me 
what  fable,  what  allegory,  what  general  con- 
ception, binds  your  design  together;  for  I  own 
I  can  scarcely  understand  the  position  of  this 
admirable  portrait-statue." 

"Indeed,  my  lord,"  replied  Sanazarro, 
"your  lordship  understands  art  too  well  to 
force  upon  me  so  unfair  a  trial.  Doubtless, 
when  I  designed  the  tomb,  I  had  some  such 
allegory  as  you  desire  before  me;  but  my  lord, 
I  have  described  it  in  these  figures,  and  cannot 
otherwise  describe  it  without  falling  short  or 
going  too  far.  You  will  not  ask  me  to  carica- 
ture my  own  work,  my  lord." 

It  is  characteristic  of  Orsino,  although  he 
had  put  the  question  with  an  ulterior  purpose, 

[6i] 


that  this  argument  closed  his  mouth.  He 
agreed  cordially  with  Sanazarro,  and  contin- 
ued aloud  to  criticise  and  compliment  the 
statues,  while  he  was  silently  turning  over  a 
very  different  question  in  his  mind.  "Plainly 
there  is  an  understanding  between  them,"  he 
thought.  *'If  I  could  but  foster  this,  I  might 
be  rid  of  her  with  a  good  conscience,  marry 
Isotta,  and  so  save  my  soul  alive;"  for  he  had 
always  one  eye  on  eternity,  even  in  his  most 
criminal  moments.  At  last  it  was  time  for 
him  to  trick  himself  out  for  the  penitential 
visit  to  Bartolomeo.  ''Signor  Sanazarro,"  he 
said,  "I  recommend  my  Duchess  to  your  atten- 
tions. Ippolita,  you  have  not  tended  enough 
upon  our  guest.  Give  him  your  hand  into  the 
garden." 

No  sooner  were  these  two  alone  in  an  open 
part  of  the  garden,  where  no  eavesdropper 
could  come  near  them,  than  Sanazarro  asked 
what  this  should  signify. 

"Nay,"  she  answered,  "something  evil.  I 
had  thought  that  if  God  raised  him  up  by  this 
wonder,  he  would  have  given  him  a  new  spirit. 
But  it  is  not  so.  He  has  been  already  to  visit 
that  bad  woman." 

[62] 


"Isotta!"  ejaculated  Sanazarro. 

The  Duchess  bowed.  "I  do  not  think,"  she 
continued,  ''that  I  shall  abide  here  many  days 
longer.  I  have  done  my  utmost  to  forgive 
and  better  this  man,  and  I  will  not  stay  to  be 
degraded  uselessly.  It  is  well  that  we  should 
not  tempt  Heaven  either,  my  dear  friend." 

"But  you  will  tell  me  whither  you  go?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  so.  We  are  weak  creatures  all.  And 
remember  this,  that  I  have  bright  blood  in  my 
veins  that  does  not  fear  death,  but  cannot  bear 
dishonour.  God  keep  us  all  from  sin,"  she 
added,  crossing  herself.  "Even  now  there  are 
eyes  upon  us,  I  do  not  doubt.  We  must  sep- 
arate, my  friend.  Make  the  tomb  worthy  of 
your  genius.  I  doubt  not,  we  shall  meet  again 
in  God's  justice,  when  we  may  dare  to  be  hap- 
py." 

"This  is  not  farewell?"  he  said. 

"Fear  not,"  she  answered.  "I  shall  see  you 
ere  I  go." 

The  day  went  heavily  for  Sanazarro.  He 
returned  to  the  studio  and  sought  to  work,  but 
it  would  not  come  from  his  hands;  his  head 
was  full  of  fancies,  but  the  power  of  execution 

[63] 


had  deserted  him;  so  he  gave  up  the  attempt 
and  went  out  into  the  garden,  driven  by  a  dull 
restlessness.  He  found  there  a  young  man,  a 
hired  sword  of  Orsino's,  —  handsome,  brave 
and  utterly  wicked,  who  had  formed  a  sort  of 
intimacy  with  the  sculptor  for  the  love  of  his 
statues,  and  was  just  then  somewhat  touched  in 
the  head  with  wine. 

"Have  you  your  poniard  sharp,  Sanazarro?" 
he  asked,  coming  up  with  an  extravagant  ges- 
ture. 

"Do  you  mean  my  chisel?"  said  the  sculp- 
tor. "I  am  going  but  now  to  the  wheel  with 
it;  though  indeed,  I  fancy  it  was  the  hand  that 
was  heavy  and  not  the  poor  instrument  that 
was  blunt."  And  he  drew  a  chisel  from  a 
pouch  at  his  girdle. 

The  young  man  damned  all  double  mean- 
ings heartily.  "Your  poniard,  man,"  he  re- 
iterated,—  "your  dagger  —  your  little  tickle- 
the-heart.  Great  death,  Sanazarro,  have  you 
not  heard  the  news?"  And  he  steadied  him- 
self by  the  full  of  the  sculptor's  sleeve.  "Do 
you  not  know  the  ball's  on  for  tomorrow  night? 
God's  malison,  are  you  not  ready  to  make  an 
end  of  them?" 

[64] 


Sanazarro  was  stricken  by  a  great  doubt  sud- 
denly; he  led  on  the  drunken  mercenary,  until 
he  learned  from  him,  that  the  next  night's 
festival  was  meant  only  as  a  snare  for  Barto- 
lomeo  and  his  son;  that,  at  an  hour  not  yet  de- 
cided, they  should  be  slain  while  they  slept, 
with  a  great  uproar,  and  the  rumor  spread 
among  the  townsfolk  that  they  had  attempted 
their  host's  life  by  treachery,  and  justly  fallen 
in  the  attempt.  So  soon  as  it  was  possible,  he 
disengaged  himself  from  his  informant,  and 
got  away  into  an  alley  alone.  The  sun  was 
down  already,  but  the  upper  windows  of  the 
palace  were  all  encrimsoned,  and  the  barti- 
zans and  turrettops  and  chimneys  stood  out 
against  the  veiled  sky,  as  it  were  the  colour  of 
blood.  Sanazarro  put  his  hand  before  his 
eyes:  Bartolomeo  had  been  among  his  earliest 
patrons,  and  the  blood  upon  that  long  line  of 
pinnacles  and  windows  was  to  him  as  the  blood 
of  his  patron.  He  was  not  chary  of  life;  but 
a  horror  rose  up  in  his  throat,  like  sickness, 
against  the  demon  who  had  gone  forth  some 
hours  ago  upon  his  treacherous  mission.  As 
his  thoughts  began  to  collect  themselves,  how- 
ever, he  overcame  this  physical  oppression  of 

[6s] 


disgust,  and  became  once  more  cool  and  prov- 
ident. He  hurried  to  the  gate  nearest  the 
palace,  where  he  was  well  known  to  the  ward- 
er and  had  been  let  out  and  in  already  at  for- 
bidden hours,  and  arranged  that,  on  the  mor- 
row, the  gate  should  be  open,  whatever  incon- 
sistent consign  should  be  given  forth,  on  the 
payment  of  a  small  sum  and  the  repetition  of 
a  certain  watchword.  While  he  was  still  chaf- 
fering there,  the  noise  of  a  trumpet  told  him 
of  the  Duke's  return.  He  hurried  back  to 
the  palace.  The  confessor  was  the  only  per- 
son in  whom  he  dared  confide;  and  the  con- 
fessor he  hoped  to  find  for  a  moment,  ere  the 
feast  began. 

But  Orsino,  during  his  penitential  ride,  had 
found  time  for  reflexion,  and  come  to  think 
differently  of  any  intimacy  between  the  sculp- 
tor and  his  wife.  Somehow  or  other,  he  had 
succeeded  in  making  himself  jealous;  and  the 
first  thing  he  had  done,  on  his  return,  was  to 
issue  an  order  for  the  arrest  of  Sanazarro. 
At  the  same  time,  as  he  was  not  quite  certain 
whether  he  might  not  go  back  again  to  his 
former  scheme,  and  perhaps  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  the  proceeding,  this  arrest  was  to 

[66] 


be  kept  secret;  the  sculptor  was  to  be  reported 
on  a  visit  to  the  marble  quarries,  and  mean- 
while was  to  be  used  with  no  needless  indig- 
nity. 

The  captain  of  halberdiers  charged  with 
this  duty,  met  Sanazarro  as  he  went  hither 
and  thither  seeking  the  confessor,  and  re- 
quested a  few  words  with  him  in  private.  The 
sculptor,  thinking  no  ill,  followed  down 
a  corridor,  until  he  found  himself  surround- 
ed by  several  men,  and  was  bidden  give  up  his 
sword.  Resistance  was  impossible.  He  freed 
his  rapier  and  surrendered  it  to  the  officer. 
He  was  led  down  a  stair  and  along  several 
passages,  and  then  a  door  was  opened,  he  was 
pushed  into  a  cell,  and  heard  the  door  locked 
behind  him. 


At  supper  that  evening,  the  Duke  drank 
several  glasses  of  a  strong  wine  —  too  strong, 
as  the  result  proved,  for  his  head  which  was 
not  yet  very  well  assured.  He  grew  flushed 
and  voluble  and  fierce;  he  taunted  his  wife  to 
her  face  about  Sanazarro's  statue;  it  was  plain 
enough,  he  said,  that  the  sculptor  had  seen  his 

[67] 


model  through  rose-coloured  glasses.  "If 
you  had  been  as  beautiful  as  your  minion 
makes  you,  we  should  have  been  faster  friends, 
Signora;"  and  he  began  to  compare  her  dis- 
paragingly—  and  in  a  grumbling  but  still 
quite  audible  undertone  —  with  the  more  lux- 
uriant Isotta.  Some  of  his  worthless  adher- 
ents tittered  approvingly;  and  bandy-legged 
Cosmo  leaned  over  and  cracked  a  joke  of  his 
own  in  Orsino's  ear,  which  set  the  Duke  and 
two  or  three  near  him  into  open  and  insulting 
laughter.  Ippolita  had  to  bear  herself  with 
as  good  a  grace  as  she  could,  meanwhile,  and 
keep  a  composed  demeanor  under  all  these 
eyes. 

The  next  morning  early  she  presented  her- 
self before  the  Duke  with  a  severe  reverence, 
and  requested  his  permission  to  go  once  again 
into  the  seclusion  of  a  religious  house;  he  was 
now  reestablished  in  health,  and  she  could  be 
of  no  farther  use  to  him  in  the  capacity  of 
nurse;  in  no  other,  she  feared,  was  she  fit  to 
adorn  his  court.  The  Duke  laughed  heart- 
ily; he  was  glad  that  she  should  take  some  re- 
venge upon  him  for  his  last  night's  behaviour, 
with  which  (to  say  truth)  he  had  not  been  al- 

[68] 


together  satisfied  on  cool  reflexion;  he  was 
glad  that  she  should  speak  with  irony,  for  it 
seemed  to  put  them  on  a  level.  Nor  was  he 
much  grieved  at  her  request;  in  his  better 
moments,  he  had  just  enough  respect  for  his 
wife  to  find  her  presence  a  restraint  on  his 
free  action;  and  besides,  in  his  new  whim  of 
jealousy,  he  was  pleased  that  she  should  be 
separated  from  Sanazarro. 

''My  permission!"  he  said,  repeating  her 
words.  "Nay,  it  is  all  the  other  way.  Do 
me  justice,  Signora.  I  asked  you  very  hum- 
bly to  come  to  me  when  I  was  sick;  now  that 
I  am  well,  I  am  afraid  I  must  prepare  myself 
to  lose  you.  Whenever  you  cease  to  pity  me, 
I  understand  very  well  that  you  begin  to  de- 
spise."    And  he  made  her  a  fine  bow, 

*'My  lord,"  she  said,  "I  wish  I  could  tell 
you  otherwise.  But  for  this  grace  of  yours 
in  letting  me  go,  I  thank  you  from  the  heart." 

"Stay,  though,  stay,"  interrupted  Orsino. 
"I  cannot  let  you  go  before  tomorrow.  I  de- 
sire your  presence  at  the  feast  tonight.  It 
would  be  but  a  lame  ceremony,  if  my  Duchess 
were  absent,  when  I  eat  and  drink  in  reconcil- 
iation with  my  old  enemy." 

[69] 


''I  shall  never  more  eat  at  your  board  of 
my  own  free  will.  If  you  compel  me,  I  fear 
my  presence  will  not  add  to  your  mirth.  I 
warn  you  I  shall  not  care  to  dissemble  my  true 
feelings." 

"Then,  Signora,"  the  Duke  answered  with 
a  laugh,  "we  were  as  well  without  you,  as  you 
say.  Do  this  for  me  at  least,  and  if  you  go 
this  morning,  cover  your  face  with  a  thick 
veil,  and  speak  to  no  one.  In  an  hour's  time, 
the  escort  shall  await  you  at  the  postern;  and 
I  warn  you  it  will  be  slender  —  w^e  require  all 
our  men  for  tonight's  pageantry."  And  kiss- 
ing her  hand  in  a  very  gallant  and  airy  man- 
ner, the  Duke  led  her  to  the  door. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Cosmo  stepped 
forth  from  the  oratory  where  he  had  been 
concealed  throughout  the  interview.  "You 
should  have  made  her  stay,"  he  said.  "Your 
wife  gone,  the  half  of  your  penitential  credit 
goes  with  her.  Bartolomeo  will  be  ready  to 
suspect  the  very  walls." 

"Not  so,"  replied  Orsino,  "The  Duchess 
is  indisposed  this  evening;  she  has  fatigued 
herself  nursing  me  during  my  sickness;  to- 

[70] 


morrow,  she  will  be  better.  The  tale  goes 
like  a  glove." 

Just  then  Lippo  entered  the  room;  and  Or- 
sino  whispered  a  few  phrases  in  his  ear,  of 
which  Cosmo  caught  no  more  than  the  word 
''Isotta."  The  man  went  to  the  door,  and 
then  returned  and  whispered  back  again,  as 
though  he  were  not  sure  of  having  rightly 
comprehended.  *'No,  no,"  said  the  Duke, 
with  a  stamp,  ''Where  are  your  seven  wits? 
In  the  Belvedere."  The  valet  nodded  and 
withdrew;  and  his  master  remained  for  some 
seconds  in  thought,  and  in  thought  that  was 
seemingly  disagreeable  to  him,  for  his  brows 
were  gathered  together  darkly,  and  his  under- 
lip  was  drawn  in,  as  in  a  timorous  uncertainty. 
"God  have  mercy  upon  me,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"this  is  like  the  mad  wicked  old  days  before 
my  chastisement." 

"Not  dissimilar  truly,"  returned  Cosmo. 

"I  fear  I  am  a  great  backslider,"  said  the 
Duke;  and  he  fell  actively  to  his  beads. 

The  older  man  put  his  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder,  and  shook  him:  "Leave  me  these 
playthings    alone,"   he   said.     "You   may   go 

[71] 


back  to  your  prayers  tomorrow;  but  today  is 
the  day  for  business." 

Orsino  hesitated,  and  looked  from  his  chap- 
let  to  the  severe  visage  of  his  uncle,  and  back 
again  from  Cosmo  to  the  beads.  ''I  wish  I 
knew  whether  or  not  it  was  a  miracle,"  he 
said  with  a  sigh.  And  then  the  two  fell  to 
their  preparations  in  all  seriousness. 

Ippolita  was  astonished  to  hear  of  Sanazar- 
ro's  departure,  the  night  before,  to  the  marble 
quarries;  she  was  even  a  little  offended  that 
he  should  thus  have  gone  without  a  word. 
But  she  had  no  time  for  reflexion:  before  the 
hour  was  out,  she  and  her  maid,  both  closely 
veiled,  were  hurried  through  the  postern  and, 
with  an  escort  of  three  horsemen,  took  the  road 
that  leads  north-eastward  into  the  hills. 


The  sculptor  awoke  late  on  the  morning  of 
the  fatal  day.  The  cell  was  full  of  sunshine 
already.  As  he  had  not  been  searched,  he 
still  had  his  chisel  in  his  pouch,  and  a  brief 
examination  of  the  door  showed  him  that  he 
could  free  himself  by  the  labour  of  half  an 

[72] 


hour;  but  as  the  corridor  sounded  all  day  long 
with  the  passage  of  many  feet,  he  judged  it 
wiser  to  wait  until  the  feast  began,  when  the 
whole  household  would  be  concentrated  about 
the  kitchen  and  the  hall,  and  there  would  be 
few  to  come  and  go  about  this  remote  wing. 
The  time  passed  heavily,  and  he  had  many 
grave  anxieties  to  torment  him.  If  he  had 
been  arrested  because  the  Duke  was  jealous, 
might  not  the  same  fate  have  befallen  Ippo- 
lita?  Even  if  she  were  free,  he  feared  some 
mischance  in  the  confusion  of  the  massacre. 
He  was  eaten  up  with  impatience,  and  paced 
his  prison  as  a  wild  beast  paces  its  cage.  From 
without  he  could  hear  carpenters  hammering 
at  the  great  platform  on  which  the  Duke's 
private  actors  were  to  represent  an  allegorical 
play,  written  by  the  Duke's  private  poet.  As 
the  day  drew  on,  this  noise  dropped  off,  ham- 
mer by  hammer,  until  it  had  entirely  ceased: 
the  stage  was  ready.  Soon  after,  there  was  a 
long  flourish  of  drums  and  trumpets  in  the  dis- 
tance; at  the  same  moment  all  the  bells  of  the 
town  fell  a-ringing;  and  Sanazarro  knew  that 
Orsino  and  his  guest  had  entered  the  gate  amid 
a    mighty    acclamation    of    the    mob.     The 

[73] 


shouting  drew  nearer;  until  at  last  it  halted 
just  outside  the  palace,  and  there  redoubled 
and  grew  more  confused:  the  company  were 
taking  their  places  for  the  spectacle.  Then 
the  trumpets  sounded  once  more,  the  roar  of 
the  mob  settled  down  with  a  growl  into  silence, 
only  disturbed,  for  the  space  of  an  hour,  by  the 
thin  tones  of  the  actors  declaiming  inaudible 
verses,  by  a  little  half-suppressed  applause 
now  and  then  from  the  audience,  and  now  and 
then  a  roll  on  the  drums  or  a  blast  upon  the 
trumpets  to  accentuate  some  important  mo- 
ment of  the  action.  The  piece  came  to  an  end 
amid  general  satisfaction;  the  mob  dispersed 
slowly  as  the  sun  went  down;  and  Sanazarro 
was  left  to  count  time  by  the  bell  until  the 
feast  should  begin. 

The  beginning  of  the  feast  was  marked  by 
a  sudden  outburst  of  music  in  the  palace:  the 
Duke's  orchestra  was  playing  an  induction. 
And  now  doubtless  traitors  and  betrayed  were 
dipping  together  in  the  same  salt-dish,  bowing 
and  smiling  one  to  another  and  drinking  sol- 
emnly to  peace  and  friendship  in  the  future. 
Sanazarro  set  to  work  upon  the  lock  with  his 
chisel.     It  was  an  easier  matter  even  than  he 

[74] 


had  supposed;  for  the  stone  was  planed  al- 
ready and  fell  away  in  so  large  a  lump  that  the 
fragment  served  him  thenceforward  as  chisel. 
The  bolt  was  soon  laid  bare,  the  door  opened 
inwards  without  resistance,  and  the  sculptor 
was  free.  He  hastily  visited  the  doors  of  the 
other  cells,  beat  upon  them  and  called  upon 
the  inmates  to  say  who  they  were.  From  some 
there  came  no  answer  but  the  hollow  rever- 
beration of  his  own  blows;  from  others  differ- 
ent voices  replied  to  him,  some  mockingly, 
some  evidently  excited  to  a  brief  hope  of  lib- 
eration; but  nowhere  the  voice  of  Ippolita. 
Sanazarro  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow;  he 
was  certain  that  Orsino  would  not  cast  her 
into  a  dungeon;  certain,  therefore,  that  she 
was  free. 

As  he  had  supposed,  this  wing  of  the  palace 
was  silent  and  deserted;  but  as  he  drew  near 
to  the  great  hall  the  noise  of  steps,  the  clatter 
of  dishes,  the  gay  inarticulate  babble  of  many 
voices  came,  as  it  were,  to  meet  him.  At  last 
he  saw  light  at  the  end  of  the  dark  corridor 
he  followed;  and  in  the  light,  many  servants 
going  hurriedly  to  and  fro  between  the  feast 
and  the  kitchen.     He  did  not  know,  of  course, 

[75] 


that  his  emprisonment  had  been  kept  a  secret, 
and  would  willingly  have  avoided  curious 
eyes;  but  he  had  no  choice;  to  reach  his  own 
chamber  it  was  necessary  to  put  on  a  bold  face 
and  go  through  the  thick  of  the  bustle  and  by 
the  doors  of  the  very  room  in  which  the  ca- 
rouse went  noisily  forward.  He  held  his 
breath  as  he  did  so;  but  no  one  sought  to  stay 
him ;  no  one  —  so  great  was  the  hurry  —  found 
time  so  much  as  to  look  him  between  the  eyes; 
and  he  could  tell  himself,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished this  perilous  traject  and  got  upstairs  be- 
tween the  lines  of  flaring  torches,  that  he  had 
escaped  recognition  by  any.  The  torches  went 
no  higher  than  the  first  double  flight  of  stairs 
(a  sure  sign  that  all  the  great  guests  had  their 
billets  on  the  first  floor),  and  Sanazarro  was 
hurrying  on  yet  higher,  in  the  sort  of  scanty 
twilight  of  a  few  candles  posted  here  and 
there  at  wide  intervals  along  the  walls,  when 
he  almost  fell  over  a  couple  of  the  Duke's 
valets  coming  down  a  side  passage.  He  fell 
back  with  an  incontroUable  impulse  for  self- 
defence,  and  drew  the  chisel  —  the  only  wea- 
pon left  to  him.  But  the  two  men  saluted 
him  quite  respectfully,  wished  the  Signor  San- 

[76] 


azarro  a  good  evening,  and  passed  on,  judging 
him  probably  in  his  cups.  Without  further 
accident  he  reached  his  own  apartment,  and 
having  provided  himself  with  his  favourite 
sword  and  dagger,  and  all  his  money  and  jew- 
els, returned  again  to  the  first  landing  of  the 
stair.  Here,  behind  some  hangings  and  at  a 
place  whence  he  could  see  out  through  the  di- 
vision of  two  widths,  he  concealed  himself  and 
waited  till  the  company  should  retire.  Pos- 
sibly, even  as  they  passed,  he  might  find  the 
opportunity  to  let  slip  a  word  of  caution.  .  . 
His  heart  beat  very  fast,  you  may  imagine, 
as  the  hours  went  on.  The  uproar  in  the  hall 
dwindled  not,  but  rather  increased;  and  there 
were  songs,  from  time  to  time,  and  pieces  of 
music  by  the  orchestra.  At  last,  towards  mid- 
night, he  heard  the  sound  of  feet  and  voices 
near  at  hand.  An  officer,  flushed  with  drink, 
and  very  gay,  proceeded  to  line  the  stair  and 
the  passage  with  alternate  halberdiers  and  men 
carrying  flambeaux.  All  the  men  had  been 
drinking,  as  well  as  the  officer;  and  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  laughing  among  them,  and 
many  jests  that  were  plain  enough  to  Sana- 
zarro,  though  they  might  not  have  been  very 

[77] 


comprehensible  to  anyone  unacquainted  with 
the  intended  treachery.  A  brawny  halberdier 
was  posted  just  in  front  of  him,  so  that  he 
scarcely  dared  to  breathe;  and  the  next  few 
minutes  went  very  irksomely  with  the  poor 
sculptor,  cramped  up  behind  the  hangings. 
He  had  not  long,  however,  of  such  penance. 
The  orchestra  began  an  energetic  finale;  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  faint  cheering;  the  halber- 
diers and  flambeaux-bearers  pulled  themselves 
together  and  were  silent.  Then  Sanazarro 
saw,  over  the  shoulder  of  the  man  in  front  of 
him,  a  princely  party  coming  up  the  wide 
staircase  between  the  lines  of  attendants.  Or- 
sino  came  first,  leading  Bartolomeo  by  the 
hand;  and  then  Cosmo  holding  the  hand  of 
Gian  Pietro;  and  behind  them  a  goodly  com- 
pany of  pages  and  officers  and  petty  nobles, 
attached  to  either  family.  All  seemed  the 
worse  of  drink,  at  the  first  glance;  but,  as  they 
continued  to  pass  before  him,  a  disquieting 
suspicion  forced  itself  into  the  sculptor's  mind 
and  grew  ever  more  and  more  certain.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  all,  whether  hosts  or  guests, 
whether  followers  of  Orsino  or  Bartolomeo, 
were  making  much  of  their  intoxication,  were 

[78] 


not  really  so  drunken  as  they  would  give  them- 
selves out  for.  He  seemed  to  detect  sober 
glances  passing  from  one  to  another,  and  a  fold 
of  gravity  on  the  most  exalted  looking  counte- 
nance. The  foot  tripped,  and  the  tongue 
spoke  foolishly;  but,  in  more  instances  than 
one,  Sanazarro  would  have  laid  a  long  wager 
that  the  mind  was  not  much  perturbed. 

As  this  procession  went  by  him  and  disap- 
peared down  the  long  corridor,  the  music  died 
away  in  the  hall  below;  and  the  men  on  the 
stair  shouldered  their  halberts,  extinguished 
their  torches  and  trooped  ofif  laughing  to  the 
guard  room.  Sanazarro  was  just  about  to 
separate  the  hangings  and  come  forth,  when 
he  heard  voices  and  steps  returning,  and  Or- 
sino  and  his  uncle  went  past  again  in  close  con- 
versation, and  stopped,  not  ten  feet  from  his 
hiding-place,  at  the  top  of  the  stair. 

"No,"  said  Cosmo,  "nothing,  I  grant.  To 
a  desire." 

"And  you  saw,  too,"  returned  the  Duke,  evi- 
dently continuing  some  train  of  argument, 
"they  made  no  difficulty  about  Ippolita's  ab- 
sence. They  believed  she  was  still  in  the 
palace." 

[79] 


"I  imagine  they  did." 

"Well  then,  I  was  right  to  let  her  go  quietly, 
was  I  not?  It  is  easier  to  tell  a  falsehood  than 
to  pacify  a  discontented  woman." 

"Like  enough,"  replied  the  uncle,  "like 
enough;"  and  he  descended  the  stair,  while 
Orsino  turned  and  went  warily  back  by  the 
way  he  had  come. 

Sanazarro's  mind  was  set  at  rest  about  the 
Duchess;  she  was  safe  out  of  the  palace,  it  was 
plain,  and  he  had  a  shrewd  guess  he  should 
find  her,  whenever  he  wanted,  at  the  old  nun- 
nery among  the  hills;  so  he  had  his  mind  free 
for  the  immediate  interests  of  the  night.  He 
came  out  of  his  concealment,  and  tried  to 
imagine  where  Bartolomeo  would  most  prob- 
ably be  set  to  sleep.  After  passing  under  re- 
view all  the  apartments  of  the  first  floor,  he 
pitched  upon  one  as  the  most  probable  —  he 
could  hardly  have  told  why — and,  without 
knowing  very  distinctly  what  he  wished  to  do, 
set  off  stealthily  along  the  corridor  towards  it. 
He  was  burthened  by  a  dreadful  sense  of  inse- 
curity; he  knew  that  behind  these  shut  doors 
there  were  no  sleepers,  but  men  waiting  for  a 
signal,  with  bright  eyes  and  their  swords  across 

[80] 


their  knees;  at  any  moment  the  storm  might 
burst;  it  seemed  as  if  the  floor  was  alive  and 
quaked  under  his  steps.  Suddenly,  he  stood 
still.  A  cold  sweat  burst  out  over  his  body. 
Yes,  he  was  right;  there  was  a  footfall  in  the 
corridor  besides  his  own,  a  stealthy  treacher- 
ous footfall  drawing  near  to  meet  him.  He 
stepped  back  into  the  shadow  of  a  doorway 
and  waited,  with  his  hand  on  his  dagger.  It 
was  a  poor  shelter;  but  there  was  none  other 
within  reach,  and  the  new-comer  (whoever 
he  was)  might  turn  the  corner  at  any  moment. 
Nor  had  the  sculptor  long  to  wait.  Orsino 
himself,  on  tiptoes,  with  hands  held  up  to  bal- 
ance him,  and  eyes  fixed  wakefully  on  the 
empty  air,  as  he  gave  up  his  whole  spirit  to  the 
task  of  walking  without  noise  —  Orsino,  in  a 
hat  and  cloak,  brushed  close  by  him  and  was 
gone  upon  the  instant.  Where  could  he  be 
going?  What  black  business  had  he  on  hand? 
It  was  plainly  secret,  even  from  Cosmo.  For  a 
moment  the  sculptor  stood  bewildered;  then 
he  made  up  his  mind  and  stole  after  the  Duke. 
It  was  easy  enough  to  follow  unobserved 
along  the  corridor.  But  the  stair  gave  a  great 
advantage  to  the  chase;  and  when  the  pursuer 

[8i] 


gained  the  groundfloor,  he  whom  he  was  pur- 
suing had  disappeared.  Many  passages 
branched  off  from  the  foot  of  the  stair — it 
was  not  the  great  stair,  but  a  private  flight  in 
the  west  wing;  and  as  there  was  no  reason  for 
choosing  any  one  instead  of  another,  Sanazarro 
paused,  irresolute.  As  he  was  thus  standing, 
he  heard  the  creak  of  a  hinge,  and  a  little  puflf 
of  fresh  night  air  from  the  garden  blew  upon 
his  face  and  made  the  lights  wink  and  the 
shadows  bestir  themselves  along  the  dim  gal- 
leries. This  was  indication  sufficient,  and  next 
moment  the  artist  had  opened  the  private  door 
and  stood,  almost  dazzled,  on  the  threshold. 
The  orange  tufts  and  paved  alleys  of  the  gar- 
den were  displayed  in  strange  detail  and  relief 
by  a  flood  of  vivid  moonlight;  the  very 
shadows  looked  solid,  and  one  would  have 
feared  to  walk  upon  them  if  they  had  not 
moved  with  the  wind.  Down  the  centre  al- 
ley, Sanazarro  saw  the  cloaked  figure  of  the 
Duke  moving  away  swiftly,  like  a  blot  upon 
the  intense  white  light.  A  turbulent  crowd 
of  recollections  surged  into  his  brain  and  dis- 
appeared again.  This  centre  alley  led  to  the 
Belvedere;  the  Duke  had  renewed  his  rela- 

[82] 


tions  with  Isotta;  probably  the  massacre  was 
not  to  begin  until  some  dead  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing; and  my  lord  would  grow  weary  if  he  sat 
in  his  own  room  to  wait  the  fatal  signal.  Such 
levity  on  an  occasion  of  so  much  tragic  import 
would  have  been  incredible  on  the  part  of 
most  men ;  but  it  was  by  no  means  inconsistent 
with  the  known  character  of  Orsino.  These 
were,  in  fact,  the  sort  of  incongruities  that  had 
an  attraction  like  that  of  a  precipice  for  his  dis- 
ordered fancy.  And  he  was  never  content  un- 
less he  were  strongly  moved,  whether  by  pas- 
sion or  religion,  or  the  uncertain  issue  of  some 
piece  of  perilous  or  desperate  policy.  This 
avidity  for  violent  sensations  was  with  him  a 
mode  of  cowardice  that  often  stood  in  the 
stead,  and  played  the  part  of  bravery.  All 
this  passed  through  Sanazarro's  brain  in  the 
least  interval  of  time.  Whether  or  not  he  was 
right  in  his  conclusion,  he  could  not  doubt 
the  importance  of  the  opportunity  now  aflford- 
ed  him.  Orsino  slain,  a  death  blow  would  be 
dealt  to  the  whole  plan  of  massacre;  just  when 
it  was  ripe,  it  would  be  troubled  and  diverted; 
and  while  the  traitors  were  looking  for  their 
absent  leader,  the  betrayed  might  have  the 

[83] 


more  time  to  escape  or  to  fortify  their  position. 
He  did  not  hesitate.  Loosening  his  rapier  in 
the  sheath,  he  followed  the  faster  after  his 
quarry. 

The  Duke  was  perhaps  half  way  between 
the  palace  and  the  Belvedere,  when  the  sound 
of  Sanazarro's  footsteps  reached  his  ears.  He 
started  and  turned  round.  The  sculptor  did 
not  trust  himself  to  articulate  any  word,  lest 
his  voice  should  be  recognised  as  that  of  one 
not  privy  to  the  night's  undertaking;  but  he 
waved  his  arm  significantly  and  gave  vent  to  a 
long  "hist!"  Orsino  stopped  and  waited,  ap- 
parently not  without  great  anxiety;  for  he 
moved  uneasily,  put  his  hand  twice  to  his 
sword  and  at  last,  when  the  sculptor  was  al- 
ready close  to  him,  drew  it  suddenly  and  fell 
on  guard.  Sanazarro  followed  his  example, 
and  the  blades  met.  "Aha!  my  sculptor  1" 
cried  the  Duke;  and  he  laughed  cruelly.  He 
knew  himself  to  be  a  fine  swordsman,  but  for- 
got, in  his  excitement,  how  long  he  had  been 
out  of  practice  and  how  much  weakness  had 
been  left  upon  him  by  his  recent  sickness.  The 
fight  endured,  perhaps,  a  minute  and  a  half. 
Then  Sanazarro's  blade  passed  through  the 

[84] 


Duke's  sword  arm;  and  the  latter,  throwing 
away  his  weapon,  falling  on  the  ground  and 
putting  up  his  hands  as  if  to  shield  himself, 
cried  out  in  a  terrible  shrill  voice  that  he  was 
not  fit  to  die.  But  the  sculptor  did  not  stop 
to  listen  to  him,  and  drove  his  rapier  three 
times  through  the  Duke's  body  till  the  point 
rang  upon  the  pavement  Then  he  stopped 
and  put  his  hand  to  his  heart.  Even  in  recol- 
lection, the  tones  in  which  the  miserable  devil 
had  cried  out  for  mercy,  chilled  and  horrified 
him.  He  had  killed  men  before,  but  never 
any  who  had  not  met  death  courageously. 

And  as  he  thus  stood,  he  became  gradually 
conscious  that  there  had  been  other  noises  in 
his  ear  whilst  he  fought,  besides  the  ring  of  the 
blades,  the  grinding  of  teeth  and  the  quick- 
ened measure  of  his  own  arteries.  There  was 
a  great  uproar  in  the  palace,  that  grew  greater 
moment  by  moment;  and  as  he  turned  in  be- 
wilderment he  saw  light  flickering  up  uncer- 
tainly behind  the  windows,  like  a  fire  that  the 
wind  blows  upon,  as  though  men  bearing 
torches  were  being  thrust  hither  and  thither 
in  a  desperate  afifray.  As  he  turned,  also,  he 
became    aware  of   sounds  yet  more   distant. 

[85] 


From  these  sounds,  the  lower  part  of  the  town 
should  be  full  of  horsemen  galloping.  There 
came  a  volley  of  firearms,  and  then  random 
shots  dropping  ofif  here  and  there  along  the 
streets,  as  though  some  body  of  musketeers 
had  been  dispersed,  and  the  fugitives  stopped 
ever  and  again  as  they  ran,  to  fire  another  shot 
on  their  pursuers.  The  great  bell  of  the  ca- 
thedral began  suddenly  to  ring  out  a  tocsin, 
and  ceased  as  suddenly;  the  rope  had  been  cut, 
or  the  ringer  slain. 

Sanazarro  began  dimly  to  comprehend;  the 
treason  had  been  double,  although  fixed  for 
dififerent  hours;  the  town  had  been  carried 
by  a  surprise ;  La  Scala  was  master  and  the  Or- 
sini,  outwitted  and  outnumbered,  were  selling 
their  lives  dearly  on  the  scene  of  their  intend- 
ed crime.  There  was  one  course  only  before 
him;  and  that  was  to  make  good  his  own  es- 
cape. The  stables  of  the  palace  were  not  far 
distant;  and  as  the  sentinels  had  already  taken 
the  alarm  and  fled,  there  was  no  one  to  prevent 
him  from  helping  himself  to  a  strong  steed, 
out  of  many  that  stood  ready  caparisoned  for 
the  enterprise  of  the  night.  At  the  gate,  also, 
all  went  well  for  him.     The  warder  was  wait- 

[86] 


ing  on  the  threshhold  of  his  lodge,  only  anxi- 
ous to  know  the  cause  of  all  this  to-do  at  the 
palace,  and  what,  under  the  circumstances, 
would  be  the  wisest  course  for  a  poor  gate- 
keeper to  adopt.  "Leave  the  gate  open,  and 
get  into  the  nearest  thicket  for  your  life!" 
Sanazarro  shouted  to  him,  as  he  galloped  off 
along  the  road  that  leads  north-eastward  into 
the  hills. 

At  the  top  of  the  first  rising  ground,  he  drew 
bridle  and  looked  back.  A  tongue  of  flame 
played  out  of  one  of  the  upper  windows  of 
the  palace.  "My  poor  statues!"  he  thought  to 
himself,  and  he  had  half  a  mind,  for  a  moment, 
to  go  back  and  seek  to  rescue  them.  But  a 
statue,  after  all,  is  only  a  statue,  and  a  mis- 
tress is  a  mistress;  and  Sanazarro  had  a  sense 
of  power  in  him  yet  unexhausted,  and  felt  sure 
that  his  brain  would  conceive,  and  his  hands 
execute,  statues  still  more  beautiful  than  these. 
Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead;  and  let  him 
go  forward  to  his  better  inspiration  through 
the  night. 

Just  about  dawn,  he  met  three  horsemen 
face  to  face  upon  the  road;  and  one  of  these 
stopped  and  made  him  a  salute.  The  Duchess, 

[87] 


he  said,  had  given  him  this  letter  for  the  hands 
of  Master  Sanazarro  privately.  The  sculptor 
took  it,  and  glanced  it  over:  it  told  how  she 
had  been  obliged  to  leave  v^ithout  seeing  him, 
how^  he  might  rest  satisfied  of  her  love  and 
preference  over  all  men,  and  how,  for  her  sake, 
he  should  not  seek  to  learn  where  she  had 
found  a  refuge.  He  asked  the  messenger 
where  he  had  left  the  Duchess;  but  [the]  man 
only  laughed  and  said  he  could  keep  his  own 
counsel  as  well  as  the  lady  could  keep  hers. 
Sanazarro  bit  his  lip,  and  the  blood  came  into 
his  face;  he  felt  a  truly  masculine  sense  of 
shame  —  that  he  should  have  let  out  to  these 
hired  knaves  how  little  he  was  in  his  lady's 
confidence.  So  he  saluted  them,  told  them 
somewhat  bitterly  of  what  reception  they  were 
like  to  meet  with  at  the  town,  and  rode  on 
again,  without  so  much  as  offering  them 
wherewithal  to  drink  his  health,  and  pursued 
for  many  a  mile  by  an  abiding  sense  of  dis- 
grace. 

He  still  believed  that  Ippolita  would  return 
to  the  old  convent  in  the  hills,  where  they  had 
first  met;  but  he  had  now  become  gloomy  and 
dogged;    certain    expressions    in    the    letter 

[88] 


seemed  scarcely  compatible  with  so  obvious 
a  retreat.  And  in  his  doubt  and  irritation,  he 
spurred  the  poor  horse  so  unmercifully  that, 
some  time  before  noon  and  about  a  league  be- 
low the  convent,  he  was  fain  to  leave  it  behind 
him  at  a  little  wayside  hostel,  and  make  the 
best  of  his  way  forward  on  foot.  The  early 
spring  of  that  favoured  country  was  already 
well  advanced;  and  the  sun  grew  so  powerful 
that  he  had  to  desert  the  highroad  and  take  to 
a  steep  path  through  a  piece  of  woodland. 

Insensibly,  as  he  followed  this  pleasant  way, 
his  irritation  was  calmed,  and  a  good  spirit 
grew  upon  him  whether  he  would  or  not.  A 
little  wind  blew,  now  and  then  among  the  fol- 
iage, and  stirred  the  lights  and  shadows  over 
the  new-fledged  grass.  And  even  when  the 
air  was  still,  there  was  a  sentiment  of  life  in 
the  mere  distribution  of  the  light  and  dark- 
ness, as  here  and  there  a  single  ray  shot  vividly 
through  some  opening  in  the  texture  of  the 
wood,  or  a  whole  sheaf  of  them  plunged  down 
at  once  and  made  a  little  lit  space  in  the  shad- 
ow. From  time  to  time,  also,  he  was  visited 
by  wandering  perfumes,  sometimes  by  the 
faint  odour  of  violet  beds,  and  sometimes  by 

[89] 


the  strong  smell  of  the  sunshine  among  firs. 
He  felt  the  springtime  through  to  his  bones; 
and  though  he  sought  (as  a  man  will,  when  he 
is  in  love)  to  exaggerate  his  evils  and  keep 
himself  in  a  true  martyr's  humour,  for  the 
very  life  of  him  he  could  not  withhold  his 
lips  from  smiling,  or  keep  his  step  from  grow- 
ing lighter  as  he  went.  At  length  he  beheld 
some  way  before  him,  on  the  left  hand,  a  little 
grey  stone  chapel,  not  much  more  considerable 
than  a  country  wine  cooler,  shut  with  iron 
gates  and  approached  by  three  steps,  all  grown 
over  with  a  glory  of  red  anemones.  The  iron 
gates  were  open;  and  just  as  he  first  set  his 
eyes  on  them,  they  were  opened  something 
farther,  and  the  figure  of  a  woman  came  forth 
into  the  broken  sunlight  of  the  grove.  It  was 
Ippolita.  His  heart  stood  still  for  joy.  He 
saw  a  great  start  go  through  her,  and  then  she 
moved  no  more,  but  waited  for  him  quietly 
upon  the  lowest  step  of  the  three  that  led  up 
into  the  little  chapel. 


[90] 


APPENDIX 

The  text  of  When  the  Devil  was  Well  has 
been  given  in  the  preceding  pages,  precisely 
in  the  state  in  which  the  author  seems  to  have 
intended  to  leave  it,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  obvious  corrections  and  one  phrase  which 
it  is  assumed  Stevenson  would  have  dropped 
at  a  reviser's  suggestion.  All  changes  which 
he  appears  to  have  made  in  the  process  of 
composition  are  entered  here,  with  practically 
no  exceptions,  and  are  distinguished  by  the 
initials  R.  L.  S.  The  comments  and  sugges- 
tions made  by  the  several  revisers  of  the  manu- 
script are  also  entered,  and  the  initials  T.  S. 
are  appended  to  such  as  seem  to  be  in  the  hand 
of  Thomas  Stevenson.  How  many  of  these 
annotations  produced  an  efifect  upon  the  text 
as  Stevenson  left  it,  is  probably  not  to  be  de- 
termined with  any  accuracy.  Had  he  printed 
the  story  without  copying  it,  he  might  have  re- 

[91] 


tained  many  changes  suggested  by  others 
which  it  has  not  seemed  proper  to  incorporate 
in  the  present  text. 

Page  19,  line  i. — When, — T.  S.  suggested 
When  the  wicked.  He  also  wished  to  have 
Duke  Orsino  changed  throughout  to  Count 
Orso.    For  finally,  T.  S.  suggested  fairly. 

Page  19,  line  2. — Ippolita, — R.  L.  S.  orig- 
inally continued  (it  would  be  hard  to  say 
whether  it  was  out  of  fear  for  her  family,  or 
from  one  of  those  occasional  returns  of  a  better 
spirit  that  now  and  then  surprised  him) ^  he 
made  no  difficulty.  This  was  all  struck  out,  as 
was  also  another  he  made,  after  which  the  text 
proceeded  as  printed. 

Page  19,  line  4. — The  palace, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  his  for  the. 

Page  19,  line  5. — to, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  of. 
nunnery, — T.  S.  suggested  convent,  and  re- 
peated the  suggestion  elsewhere. 

Page  19,  line  7. — good, — T.  S.  suggested 
gentle. 

Page  19,  line  9. — years;  and  day, — T.  S. 
suggested  years;  day,  and  commented,  "all 
this  is  rather  too  long  in  the  saying." 

[92] 


Page  19,  line  12. —  seemed, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  seemed  even. 

Page  19,  line  13. —  din, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
turmoil,    all, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  and  all. 

Page  19,  line  14. — dim  .  .  .  earth, — T.  S., 
who  must  have  recognized  his  son's  acquaint- 
ance with  the  opening  of  Milton's  "Comus," 
underlined  and  commented,  "din  and  passion 
of  earth  is  plenty." 

Page  19,  line  16. —  //  life, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  //  it. 

Page  20,  line  3. —  or  the, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  and. 

Page  20,  line  4. —  Court  life, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  worldly  life.  He  may  possibly  have 
started  to  write  courtier  for  court.  T.  S.,  com- 
menting on  poor  ....  poor,  wrote,  "There 
was  nothing  poor  about  court  life  in  Italy,^^ 
and  suggested  that  the  passage  be  made  to  read 
without  being  made  the  witness  of  crimes  and 
treasons  and  cruelties. 

Page  20,  line  5. —  even  the, — T.  S.  struck  out. 

Page  20,  line  7. —  overthrown, — T.  S.  struck 
out,  and  suggested  broken. 

Page  20,  line  11-13. —  sculptor  .  .  .  archi- 
tect,— T.  S.  wished  this  passage  to  read,  mas- 

[93] 


ter-sculptor,  who  (as  was  the  way  in  those 
days)  was  an  architect  also,  and  a  painter  too. 
His  marginal  comment  was,  "Here  'bit  of 
indicates  an  amateurishness  which  is  out  of 
place.  He  would  begin  with  being  maestro  di 
pietra  &  the  rest  in  order." 

Page  20,  line  16. — Sanazarro, — So  R.  L.  S. 
spells  consistently.  T.  S.  commented,  ''Lando, 
say  (short  for  Orlando),  a  manly  kind  of 
name,  and  belonged  to  some  artists."  Through- 
out the  MS.  he  frequently  underscored  Sana- 
zarro to  call  attention  to  his  disapprobation  of 
the  name.  In  the  present  passage  he  also 
wished  to  substitute  artist's  for  sculptor  s. 

Page  20,  line  21. —  her, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
her  at  first,  later  changing  the  position  of  the 
phrase. 

Page  20,  line  24. —  tranquil  sorrow, — R.  L. 
S.  first  wrote  placid  sorrow. 

Page  21,  line  i. —  nun, — T.  S.  wished  this  to 
be  changed  to  sister.  So  eight  lines  below  he 
wished  female  to  become  angel.  It  is  hard  to 
say  whether,  in  some  of  these  cases,  R.  L.  S. 
accepted  the  suggestion  or  rejected  it.  With 
regard  to  the  whole  passage,  T.  S.  commented 
in  the  margin,  "I  think  a  point  or  two  ought  to 

[94] 


be  added  —  have  a  pious  merchant  from  the 
neighbouring  city  determined  to  bestow  an 
altar-piece,  and  send  young  Lando  to  execute 
the  commission,  and  how  he  lodged  in  a  house 
overlooking  the  garden." 

Page  21,  line  4. —  divine, — R.  L.  S.,  whose 
spelling  was  often  shaky,  seems  to  have  written 
devine. 

Page  21,  line  13. —  nun, — T.  S.  again  wished 
to  read  sister,  and  wrote  in  the  margin,  "she 
wasn't  a  nun  you  see." 

Page  21,  line  23-24. —  the  painting  of  that 
nun, — T.  S.  wrote  in  the  margin,  that  Sister 
for  a  model. 

Page  22,  line  5. — neighbourhood, — R.  L.  S. 
wrote  nieghbourhood. 

Page  22,  line  12. —  seen  the  face, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  set  his  eyes  after  moment. 

Page  22,  line  18. — Duchess  of  Orsino, — T. 
S.  suggested  wife  of  the  Count  Orso. 

Page  22,  line  23. —  that  she  should, — T.  S. 
suggested  to. 

Page  23,  line  i. —  himself, — After  this  R.  L. 
S.  wrote,  and  then  struck  out,  the  short  para- 
graph, "True I'  said  the  Abbess. 

Page  23,  line  3. — Mythological  subject, — T. 

[95] 


S.  struck  out  and  wrote,  matter  of  gods  and 
goddesses,  and  added  in  the  margin,  ''alcuni 
Dei  the  usual  sort  of  phrase  for  a  mythology." 

Page  23,  line  17. — Now, — At  first  R.  L.  S. 
did  not  begin  a  new  paragraph  here,  but  later 
he  made  a  cross  and  wrote  "N.  L."  i.  e.,  new 
line,  in  the  margin,  being  probably  not  yet 
familiar  with  correcting  manuscripts  and 
proofsheets.  desired, — T.  S.  struck  out  and 
wrote  would  do  much. 

Page  23,  line  20-21. —  and  .  .  .  fancy, — R. 
L.  S.  wrote  and  struck  out  along  before  a  long. 
T.  S.  struck  out  the  passage. 

Page  23,  line  21. —  at  once, — T.  S.  struck 
out,  and  again  insisted  on  Countess  for  Duch- 
ess. 

Page  24,  line  4. —  ere, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
when. 

Page  24,  line  5. — Grace, — T.  S.  suggested  in 
the  margin  ladyship  (sua  Signoria). 

Page  24,  line  7-8. — Materials  for  embroide- 
ry,— T.  S.  changed  to  embroidery  frames  & 
wools. 

Page  24,  line  15. — Archbishop's, — Here,  as 
often,  R.  L.  S.  omitted  the  apostrophe.  Here- 
after such  corrections  will  be  made  silently. 

[96] 


Page  24,  line  23. — Signor, — T.  S.  wrote  in 
the  margin,  Messer  Lando. 

Page  25,  line  4. —  painting, —  R.  L.  S.  may 
have  struck  out  the  comma  after  this  word. 
Often,  when, — R.  L.  S,  first  wrote  //  ever. 

Page  25,  line  7. —  lips, — R.  L.  S.  began  and 
obliterated  some  word,  and  then  wrote  and 
struck  out  somehow. 

Page  25,  line  10. —  shadowed, — R.  L.  S.  be- 
gan and  nearly  finished  the  word  stanchioned, 
which  he  proceeded  to  use  immediately  below. 

Page  25,  line  15. —  silently, — This  seems  to 
have  been  inserted  by  R.  L.  S.  as  an  after- 
thought. 

Page  25,  line  19. —  limes, — Some  one,  ap- 
parently not  T.  S.,  wrote  in  the  margin,  "I 
never  saw  limes  in  Italy." 

Page  25,  line  24. —  the  two, — R.  L.  S.  wrote 
first  and  struck  out  they.  Along  the  margin  of 
this  entire  paragraph  someone,  apparently  the 
person  who  had  not  seen  limes  in  Italy,  drew  a 
line  and  commented  "Excellent." 

Page  26,  line  17-19. — with,  .  .  .  carriage, 
—  Opposite  in  the  margin  the  unknown  hand 
has  written  "Good." 

Page  26,  line  21. —  When  the, —  R.  L.  S. 

[97] 


originally  added,  then  struck  out,  embarrass- 
ment of  the. 

Page  26,  line  26. —  the  window, — T.  S.,  or 
some  other  reviser  wished  to  read  his  chamber 
window. 

Page  27,  line  4-5. —  the  gardener, — T.  S.,  or 
some  other  reviser,  inserted  old. 

Page  27,  line  12. —  dressings  .  .  .  fresh, — 
T.  S.,  or  some  other  reviser,  suggested  plasters 
[?]  for  green. 

Page  27,  line  17. —  sweet  consciousness  of 
gait, — T.  S.,  or  some  other  reviser,  underlined 
and  wrote  in  the  margin  "C'est  beau."  A  line 
on  the  margin  seems  to  indicate  that  part  of 
the  next  sentence  similarly  impressed  the  an- 
notator,  of  whose  identity  at  this  point  in  the 
MS.  it  is  hard  to  make  sure. 

Page  27,  line  18. —  was, — R.  L.  S.  wrote 
nearest  after  this  word,  then  changed  to  the 
text  as  it  stands. 

Page  27,  line  24-25. — in  an, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  after  an. 

Page  27,  line  25-26. — Once  even,  she  raised, 
— This  seems  to  have  stood  originally  even, 
raised. 

Page  28,  line  3-4. —  colour  ....  gait. — T. 

[98] 


S.  seems  to  have  marked  approval  by  a  line  in 
the  margin,  and  to  have  struck  out  of  gait.  In 
the  next  sentence  he  struck  out  adorable. 

Page  28,  line  7. —  sometimes  to, — R.  L.  S. 
struck  out  dry  her  eyes,  which  he  had  inad- 
vertently repeated. 

Page  28,  line  15. —  face, — R.  L.  S.  added, 
and  struck  out,  no  longer. 

Page  28,  line  17. —  good,  wise, — R.  L.  S. 
seems  to  have  inserted  and  later,  then  to  have 
struck  it  out. 

Page  29,  line  6. —  little  opportunities, — R. 
L.  S.  struck  out  little,  then  restored  it. 

Page  29,  line  8. —  join, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
be  in.  The  passage  is  marked,  by  T.  S.  seem- 
ingly, with  a  line  in  the  margin  accompanied 
by  the  comment,  "This  is  good,  but  I  am  not 
sure  whether  it  is  not  too  long,  and  the  manner 
too  prattling  and  familiar  for  an  ideal  subject 
like  this." 

Page  29,  line  19-20. —  and  Ippolita  .  .  .  . 
paint, — Here  someone,  not  clearly  T.  S.,  has 
drawn  a  line  in  the  text  and  one  in  the  margin, 
and  written  "good." 

Page  29,  line  21. —  its, — Here  and  elsewhere 
we  find  R.  L.  S.  writing  it's. 

[99] 


Page  29,  line  23. —  hourly, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  daily. 

Page  30,  line  5. —  brushes,  stood, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote,  brushes,  and  stood. 

Page  30,  line  8. —  mild, —  the  handwriting 
does  not  permit  one  to  be  certain  that  R.  L.  S. 
did  not  write  wild. 

Page  30,  line  12-13. — This  ....  died, — 
these  words  are  underscored  in  pencil ;  then  the 
entire  passage  to  the  end  of  the  paragraph  is 
struck  out  by  several  pencil  lines,  and  there  are 
lines  and  comments  in  the  margin.  The  first 
comment,  in  a  hand  not  determinably  one  hi- 
therto encountered,  runs  "/  don't  see  that!" 
Then  follows,  in  apparently  T.  S.'s  hand, 
"That's  Stephen's  observation  and  agrees  with 
mine.  S."  A  little  lower  in  the  margin  T.  S. 
seems  to  have  written  "Rather  mild  work  this 
for  a  full  blown  Italian  Duchess  1"  The  "Ste- 
phen" referred  to  seems  clearly  to  have  been 
Leslie  Stephen. 

Page  30,  line  21. —  confidently  on, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  confidently  and  caressing  upon. 

Page  31,  line  5. —  sorrow, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  a  long  longing. 

Page  31,  line  7. —  from, — R.  L.   S.  wrote 

[  100] 


first,  then  struck  out,  a  word  which  seems  to 
have  been  from  with  the  /  of  the  added. 

Page  31,  line  10. —  sunlight, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  sunshine. 

Page  31,  line  15. —  beyond, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  over. 

Page  31,  line  19. —  below, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  below  him. 

Page  31,  line  21. —  slowly, — R.  L.  S.  here 
made  a  cross  to  indicate  a  footnote,  then  im- 
mediately below  wrote  ''Foot  note,"  repeated 
the  cross,  and  enclosed  the  whole  in  parenthe- 
ses. One  or  perhaps  two  of  his  readers  placed 
in  the  margin  the  words  ''better  out,"  a  line, 
and  a  large  interrogation  mark.  Here,  and  at 
each  division  of  his  story,  R.  L.  S.  drew  a  curi- 
ous ornamental  device. 

Page  32,  line  8. —  bed-ridden, — R.  L.  S., 
who  had  just  inadvertently  written  no  for  now, 
originally  repeated  confined  from  two  lines 
above. 

Page  32,  line  9. — vigour, — T.  S,  (?)  ques- 
tioned the  propriety  of  this  word  as  well  as 
that  of  greater  in  line  19  below. 

Page  32,  line  16. —  of  the  new  chapel, — T. 
S.  wrote  in  the  margin  "don't  let  there  be  any 

[lOl] 


risk  of  confusion  between  this  and  the  convent 
chapel." 

Page  32,  line  26. —  sands  were, — T.  S.  sug- 
gested sand  was.  been, — R.  L.  S.  originally 
added,  requested  to  come  back  to  the  Palace, 
the  last  word  serving  as  catchword  to  the  page, 
—  catchwords  being  used  throughout  the  man- 
uscript. The  passage  was  then  stricken  out, 
and  recalled  was  used  as  catchword,  from, — 
R.  L.  S.  originally  added  here  her  retreat,  then 
substituted  the  more  detailed  phrasing  of  the 
text. 

Page  33,  line  3. — Isotta, — T.  S. —  although 
the  hand  is  larger  than  his  generally  is  —  com- 
ments in  the  margin,  ^^Diamante  a  good  name 
for  a  courtesan." 

Page  33,  line  6. —  very, — T.  S.  struck  out. 
He  also  struck  out  to  a  not  very  reputable  life 
in  the  next  line. 

Page  33,  line  9. —  before, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  even  before. 

Page  33,  line  9. —  at  least, — T.  S.  struck  out. 

Page  33,  line  10. — Bartolomeo  della  Scala, 
— R.  L.  S.  used  both  de  la  and  della.  T.  S.  sug- 
gested in  the  margin  Ercole  Manfredi. 

[  102] 


P^g^  33^  ^i^e  II- — driven, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  driven  indeed. 

Page  33,  line  i6. — Towards, — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  and  then  retained.  January, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  February,  he, — R.  L.  S.  followed  with 
it,  which  he  struck  out,  as  he  did  also  after  the 
parenthesis  the  words  as  Sanazarro.  T.  S.  sug- 
gested instead  of  the  parenthesis,  on  whom  the 
Count's  choice  had  fallen. 

Page  ^2)  li^^  20. — coming, — R.  L.  S.  seems 
to  have  begun  to  write  go. 

Page  33,  line  23. — Monks, — T.  S.  suggested 
friars,  in, — R.  L.  S.  wrote  and  struck  out  be- 
tween the. 

Page  33,  line  25. — secrecy, — R.  L.  S.  began 
the  next  sentence  with  a  clause  which  he  then 
struck  out.  Although  the  house  had  been  much 
visited  of  ecclesiastics  in  the  last  few  months. 
Then  after  Sanazarro  he  struck  out  had  never 
before  seen  so  many  or  seen  them  so  much. 

Page  33,  line  26  —  Page  34,  line  i. —  to  .  .  . 
and, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  such  a  goodly  com- 
pany as  this, — later,  apparently,  changing 
the  period  to  a  comma. 

Page  34,  line  3. —  thoroughfare, — T.  S.  sug- 

[  103] 


gested,  coming  and  going.  Death, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote,  The  End. 

Page  34,  line  13. — ''tomorrow", — R.  L.  S. 
continued  for  a  time,  and  then  struck  out  the 
words. 

Page  34,  line  17. — A  sight  of, — T.  S.  com- 
mented in  the  margin,  "'a  sight  of  is  rank 
vulgarism."    sick, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  ill. 

Page  34,  line  18. —  doctors, — R.  L.  S.  wrote 
after  this  word,  and  then  struck  out,  and  tried. 

Page  34,  line  20. —  consult, — The  sentence 
ending  here  was  much  altered  by  R.  L.  S.  He 
first  continued  after  benefit  with  the  follow- 
ing: and  it  was  a  question,  since  he  had  always 
lived  so  ill,  and  showed  a  disposition  to  die  in 
the  odour  of  sanctity,  whether  it  would  not  be 
better  for  himself  and  the  world  at  large,  that 
he  should  pass  quietly  away  and  get  to  Heaven 
while  he  had  the  chance.  This  was  all  struck 
out,  and  in  the  margin  a  sign  (*A)  was  in- 
serted to  direct  the  reader  to  the  verso  of  1.  11 
lying  opposite  the  recto  of  1.  12,  where  the 
sign  and  benefit  were  repeated,  and  the  sub- 
stituted words  were  given  as  in  the  text. 

Page  34,  line  26. —  something  of  a  swag- 
ger— ,  T.  S.  (?)  underscored,  and  commented 

[  104] 


in  the  margin,  "wants  to  be  said  a  little  more 
delicately."  At  the  end  of  the  paragraph 
someone,  possibly  T.  S.,  has  drawn  a  line  in 
the  margin,  and  written  "Good." 

Page  35,  line  ii. —  tinged, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  tinted,    certain, — T.  S.  suggested  the. 

Page  35,  line  13. —  forth, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  out. 

Page  35,  line  20. —  walk, — R.  L.  S.  contin- 
ued, and  struck  out,  of  a. 

Page  35,  line  22. —  many, — It  is  hard  to  say 
whether  R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  these  or  three. 

Page  35,  line  23-24. —  a  word, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  any  word. 

P^g^  ^Si  li"^  24. —  look, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  glance. 

Page  35,  line  26. —  far  away, — Apparently 
inserted  when  R.  L.  S.  had  struck  out  after 
road  the  words  evidently  from  a  far  way  off. 

Page  36,  line  7. —  went, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
was. 

Page  36,  line  23. —  a  chance, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  the  chance. 

Page  37,  line  3. —  than, — R.  L.  S.  wrote  in- 
advertently that  lord,  then  struck  out  lord. 

Page  37,   line  8-9. — //  .  .  .  I, — Someone, 

[105] 


possibly  T.  S.,  has  inclosed  in  pencilled  paren- 
theses, and  has  written  in  the  margin,  ''Brave!" 

Page  37,  line  25. —  way, — R.  L.  S.  appears 
to  have  begun  to  write  way,  then  to  have  struck 
it  out  and  written  road,  and  finally  to  have 
come  back  to  way. 

Page  38,  line  12. —  cauldron, — opposite  the 
close  of  this  paragraph  T.  S.  wrote  in  the  mar- 
gin, "Ought  not  the  romance  up  at  the  con- 
vent to  count  for  something  in  his  sentiments?" 
This  comment  was  then  struck  out. 

Page  38,  line  16. —  gave  it, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  gave  them. 

Page  38,  line  19. —  her  hand, — Someone  un- 
derlined, and  wrote  in  the  margin,  "not  the 
custom." 

Page  39,  line  13. —  more  politic, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  safer  and  wiser.  Over  wiser  he 
wrote  and  struck  out  safe. 

Page  39,  line  15. —  raise, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  muster. 

Page  39,  line  16-17. —  go  with  him, — R.  L. 
S.  continued,  and  struck  out,  as  a  vi,  or  what 
suggests  this,  although  there  is  no  dot  to  the  i. 
Possibly  he  started  to  write  in  antithesis,  "as  a 
vigorous,"  etc. 

[106] 


Page  39,  line  20. —  answered, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  said,  then  replied.  He  followed  the 
paragraph  with  two  short  ones,  later  struck  out 
— ^^He  would  be  better  dead."  And  "Yes,  dear 
friend;  but  you  and  I  may  not  think  so." 
Whether  these  changes  were  due  to  a  line  in 
the  margin  and  the  pencilled  comment  —  by 
T.  S.  or  by  an  unknown  hand — "a  little  weak- 
ish  and  goody,"  is  not  to  be  determined. 

Page  39,  line  24. —  smile, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  laugh. 

Page  40,  line  7.^ — Ippolita, — against  this 
paragraph  a  penciled  line  has  been  drawn  in 
the  margin. 

Page  41,  line  2. —  fought, — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  anyone  after  this  word.  He  also  struck 
out  after  troopers  the  words  who  went  with 
him  under  the  charge  of  the. 

Page  41,  line  12. —  went, — T.  S.  struck  out, 
and  then  wrote  above,  clashed.  He  also  struck 
out  at  full  gallop. 

Page  41,  line  17. —  storm, — R.  L.  S.  seems 
to  have  struck  out  this  word,  then  to  have  re- 
stored it,  finding  it  to  his  mind  after  all.  This 
seems  also  to  have  happened  with  cruel,  page 
43,  line  2. 

[  107] 


Page  41,  line  24. —  for  his, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  for  the  sake  of  his. 

Page  42,  line  8. —  got, — Someone,  possibly 
T.  S.,  struck  out,  and  then  substituted  took, 
and  afterwards  struck  owt  first,  then,  and  poor. 

Page  42,  line  16. —  spiritual, —  Someone, 
probably  T.  S.,  struck  out,  and  a  little  below 
underlined  prominent  and  high. 

Page  43,  line  14. — wife, — R.  L.  S.  omitted 
quotation  marks  and  inserted  a  row  of  dashes. 
Then  he  wrote,  and  struck  out:  "You  have 

used  her  very  vilely,"  said  the  Director. 

"Mea  culpa,  mea  culpa,"  moaned  the  penitent, 
the  four  Latin  words  being  underlined. 

Page  43,  line  15-16. — for  all  .  .  .  past, — 
These  words  seem  to  have  been  inserted,  with 
a  period  closing  them,  as  an  afterthought. 

Page  43,  line  22. — will, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
shall. 

Page  44,  line  11-12. — And  the  heretics  .  .  . 
zeal, — Someone  has  drawn  two  lines  in  pencil 
under  these  words. 

Page  44,  line  14. —  one, — R.  L.  S.  seems  to 
have  written  another,  and  then  to  have  crossed 
it  out,  putting  one  in  front  of  it  towards  the 

[108] 


margin.  He  drew  a  line  under  both  words, 
whether  for  emphasis  or  not,  is  hard  to  say. 

Page  44,  line  2 1  -22. — Passion first, — 

Someone,  presumably  T.  S.,  has  drawn  a  line 
in  the  margin  against  these  words,  and  has 
written,  ''does  not  belong  to  the  time."  He 
has  also  drawn  a  long  line  against  half  the 
sheet,  beginning  with  "And  the  heretics,  fa- 
ther" and  ending  with  "set  aside." 

Page  44,  line  26. — clasped, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  moaned  pitiably. 

Page  45,  line  15. —  And  Sanazarro  .  .  .  . 
This  will  be, — The  paragraphing  follows  R. 
L.  S.,  who  used  A^.  L.  three  times  in  the  text 
and  three  times  in  the  margin  to  break  up  the 
original  long  paragraph. 

Page  45,  line  18. —  incarnate, — R.  L.  S.  first 
placed  this  before  devils. 

Page  45,  line  25 — Page  46,  line  i. —  and 

....  alone, — R.  L.  S.  wrote  and  struck  out 

when  after  and,  then  struck  out  were  they  gone 

forth,  and  wrote  above,  was  she  alone,  as  in  the 

text. 

Page  46,  line  8. —  antechamber, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  ante  room. 

[  109] 


Page  46,  line  22. —  penitence, — The  original 
has  no  mark  of  interrogation. 

Page  46,  line  25. —  further, — It  is  hard  to 
determine  here  and  in  other  cases  whether  R. 
L.  S.  wrote  further  or  farther. 

Page  47,  line  12. — Nose, — R.  L.  S.  placed  a 
colon  after  this  word.  He  shows  throughout, 
an  eighteenth  century  fondness  for  such  punct- 
uation. Someone,  presumably  T.  S.,  did  not 
like  the  passage  and,  placing  a  comma  after 
nose,  struck  out  the  text  through  /  say. 

Page  47,  line  20. —  quiet, — Before  this  word 
R.  L.  S.  wrote  and  struck  out  peace  and. 

Page  47,  line  25. —  pardon, — R.  L.  S.  next 
wrote  and  struck  out  of  him. 

Page  48,  line  5. —  countenance, — It  seems  to 
have  been  T.  S.  who,  not  liking  this  word, 
struck  it  out,  and  wrote  grin  above  it. 

Page  48,  line  7. —  /  would, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  As  God  sees  me,  I  would;  then  striking 
out  As  God  sees  me  and  a  than  after  conscience, 
he  repeated  the  phrase  as  in  the  text. 

Page  48,  line  21. —  has, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
so  has. 

Page  48,   line   23. —  listen, — R.   L.    S.   first 

[no] 


wrote  look.  My  lord, — A  preceding  dash  was 
inserted  by  R.  L.  S.,  with  a  caret. 

Page  49,  line  i8. — Devily, — The  reading 
seems  to  be  clear;  yet  R.  L.  S.  may  have  writ- 
ten Devilry,  a  word  he  seems  to  have  preferred 
to  Deviltry.  See  J.  A.  Hammerton's  "Steven- 
soniana,"  Edinburgh,  1910,  p.  324. 

Page  50,  line  4. —  industriously, — Someone 
has  underscored  in  pencil  both  this  word  and 
improving  below. 

Page  50,  line  18. —  lift, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
help.  Then  he  struck  it  out,  and  inserted  lift, 
with  a  caret.  Still  dissatisfied,  he  struck  out 
lift,  then  rewrote  it. 

Page  51,  line  4. —  not  unlike  cat's, — Written 
by  R.  L.  S.  in  the  margin,  apparently  as  an 
afterthought. 

Page  51,  line  23. — At  least, — This  sentence 
was  written  by  R.  L.  S.  in  the  margin,  with  a 
dagger  corresponding  to  one  in  the  text.  He 
first  wrote,  then  struck  out,  The  poison,  and 
seems  to  have  changed  the  small  a  of  the  orig- 
inal at  into  a  capital,  inserting  it,  with  a  caret. 

Page  52,  line  7. —  broken, — R.  L.  S.  first 
placed  this  word  before  bone. 

Page  52,  line  12. —  them  ....  were, — The 

[mi] 


MS.  reads  apparently  them,  far  as  grave  as 
they  were.  Possibly  far  may  be  for.  Probably 
R.  L.  S.  neglected  to  strike  out  the  word  here 
omitted,  or  he  may  have  intended  to  read  far 
with  the  comma  after  it  instead  of  before. 

Page  53,  line  8-1 1. —  but  she recol- 
lections,— Someone  has  made  in  the  margin  a 
large  black  mark  of  interrogation  in  pencil. 

Page  53,  line  13. —  gather, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  flow. 

Page  53,  line  16. —  weep, —  The  closing 
marks  of  quotation  are  omitted,  but  as  a  rule 
R.  L.  S.  was  careful  about  such  matters. 

Page  53,  line  21. —  with  a  smile, — Written 
by  R.  L.  S.  in  the  margin,  apparently  as  an 
afterthought. 

Page  53,  line  22. — Orsino's  .  .  .  And, — Be- 
tween these  words  R.  L.  S.  wrote  as  a  separate 
paragraph  and  an  initial  sentence,  the  follow- 
ing, which  he  later  struck  out: — '^Do  not  say 
that/'  he  answered,  smiling  also,  *'or  you  will 
make  m,e  jealous  in  spite  of  my  own  heart." 
"Well  then,"  she  said  simply,  "it  is  because  I 
love  you,  dear!" 

Page  55,  line  4. —  preparation, — After  this 
word  R.  L.  S.  wrote,  and  struck  out,  of. 

[112] 


Page  55,  line  1 1. —  at  once, — R.  L.  S.  substi- 
tuted these  words  for  before  he  could  expect 
the  miracle. 

Page  55,  line  i8, —  restored, —  After  this 
word  R.  L.  S.  wrote  and  struck  out  what. 

P^g^  55)  li"^  23. —  trying  for, — R.  L.  S. 
seems  to  have  nearly  finished  writing  these 
words,  then  to  have  struck  them  out,  then  to 
have  decided  to  write  them  in  full. 

Page  56,  line  3. — Although, —  After  this 
word  R.  L.  S.  wrote  /  dare  say.  Someone  has 
drawn  a  pencil  through  the  added  words,  and 
they  are  omitted  from  the  text. 

Page  56,  line  8. —  received, — R.  L.  S.  wrote 
and  struck  out  and  before  this  word.  A  line 
below  he  wrote  entheusiasm. 

Page  56,  line  13. —  wrought, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  performed. 

Page  56,  line  25. —  a  while, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  A  long  while. 

Page  57,  line  23. — he, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
the  before  this  word. 

Page  58,  line  2. —  hut  the  most, — R.  L,  S. 
first  wrote  property  was  restored,  beyond. 

Page  58,  line  4. —  ostentation, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  parade. 

[113] 


Page  58,  line  6. —  great  door, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  high  altar. 

Page  58,  line  7-8. —  and  vowed, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  promised,  for  which  he  then  sub- 
stituted and  swore,  finally  choosing  the  present 
text. 

Page  58,  line  9. —  future, — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  after  this  word  and  intimated  his  intention 
to  go  the  next  day,  bare  foot,  clad  in  sack  cloth 
and  with  a  cord  about  his  loins,  to  the  castle  of 
Bartolomeo,  and.  He  made  another  start  with 
to  above  these  words;  then  apparently  put  a 
period  after  future,  and  wrote  in  the  margin, 
He  vowed  also,  letting  these  words  connect 
with  lead,  which  he  had  written  just  after  the 
struck  out  words  given  above.  After  lead  he 
struck  out  him,  and  he  inserted  Bartolomeo, 
with  a  caret,  after  back.  Before  finishing  the 
passage  as  it  stands,  he  had  written  and  struck 
out  before  lead  the  words  and  told  them  he 
should,  placing  them  in  the  margin. 

Page  59,  line  i. —  agreed  to, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  come  after  these  words. 

Page  59,  line  2,— palace, — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  after  this  word.  But  the  whole  day  by  day, 
there  seemed  to  be  less  solemnity  and  less  re- 


pent.  Confessor, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  director. 

Page  59,  line  6. —  restored, — R.  L.  S.  seems 
to  have  started  to  write  this  word,  to  have 
struck  it  out,  and  then  to  have  written  it  in  full. 
T.  S.  suggested  renewed  for  renovated,  and 
wrote  against  the  paragraph  in  the  margin, 
"Can  be  shortened  with  advantage." 

Page  59,  line  7. — One, — R.  L.  S.  seems  to 
have  written  And  at  last  one.  Then  he  made 
a  new  sentence  with  At  last,  and  finally  left  the 
text  as  it  stands,  patience, — R.  L.  S.  struck  out 
with  th  his  after  this  word. 

Page  59,  line  10. — He, — R.  L.  S.  seems  first 
to  have  written  he  in  the  case  of  both  pronouns. 
After  the  second  he  struck  out  cut  you. 

Page  59,  line  23. — could  move, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  even  moved  myself.  He  seems  to 
have  intended  to  stop  his  sentence  with  before 
and  then  to  have  added  the  miracle. 

Page  59,  line  25. — The  priest, — This  para- 
graph is  struck  out  in  pencil,  and  in  the  mar- 
gin, against  the  next  paragraph,  someone, 
probably  T.  S.,  has  written,  "Say  all  this  simp- 
ler and  shorter." 

Page  60,  line  9. —  palace, — R.  L.  S.  first 
placed  a  period  after  this  word,  then  seems  to 

[■'5] 


have  added  a  comma  and  continued  and  though 
Orsino  had  been  long  desirous.  Then  striking 
out  desirous,  he  wrote  anxious  to  see  the  pro- 
gress of  the  totnb,  he.  All  this  having  been 
finally  struck  out,  he  inserted  the  colon  before 
it,  and  proceeded  as  in  the  text. 

Page  60,  line  11. — statues, — R.  L.  S.  seems 
to  have  made,  and  struck  out,  a  false  start  with 
this  word. 

Page  60,  line  16. —  wife, — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  and  after  this  word,  and  added  after  Cos- 
mo, in  the  margin,  and  .  .  .  gentlemen. 

Page  61,  line  i. —  valuable, — Someone,  ap- 
parently T.  S.,  has  struck  out  and  written  deli- 
cate above  this  word. 

Page  62,  line  8. —  be  rid  of, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  divorce,  next  get  rid  of,  then  substituted 
be  for  get.  Married  .  .  .  moments, — This 
passage  is  struck  out  in  pencil,  and  in  the  mar- 
gin appears  a  mark  of  interrogation  followed 
by  the  words,  "that  is  Stephen's  mark.  I  think 
it's  all  right."  This  comment  seems  to  be  by 
T.  S.,  and  probably  the  original  query  was  due 
to  Leslie  Stephen.  A  little  lower  in  the  margin 
T.  S.  appears  to  have  intended  the  words 
"Messer  Lando"  to  apply  to  Sanazarro,  al- 

[116] 


though  he  underscored  Bartolomeo  in  the  text. 
He  also  placed  an  interrogation  mark  against 
Duchess,  and  may  have  struck  out  the  word. 

Page  62,  line  18. — these  two, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  they. 

Page  62,  line  23. —  this, — R.  L.  S.  struck  out 
evil  after  this  word. 

Page  62,  line  26 — Page  63,  line  i. — bad 
.  .  .  Sanazarro, — These  words  are  underscored 
in  pencil,  and  someone  has  written  in  the  mar- 
gin, "milk  and  waterish." 

Page  63,  line  7. —  dear, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
good. 

Page  63,  line  10. —  creatures, —  R,  L.  S. 
started  to  write  this  or  some  other  word,  and 
then  struck  it  out. 

Page  63,  line  17-19. — /  doubt .  .  .  happy, — 
Someone  has  placed  a  mark  of  interrogation 
in  the  margin. 

Page  63,  line  23. —  went, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  hung,  for, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  on. 
Sanazarro, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  Sanazarros, 
when  he  was  alone. 

Page  63,  line  24. —  work, — R.  L.  S.  seems  at 
first  to  have  added  here  a  new  sentence  com- 


plete  in  itself,  His  head  was  full  of  fancies,  but 
the  power  of  execution  had  deserted  him. 

Page  64,  line  4. —  sword, — R.  L.  S.  seems  to 
have  made  a  false  start  with  this  word,  and  to 
have  inserted  utterly  as  an  afterthought. 

Page  64,  line  5. — formed, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  made,  the  sculptor, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  him. 

Page  64,  line  15. —  instrument, —  Someone, 
presumably  T.  S.,  has  written  "tool"  over  this 
word. 

Page  64,  line  23. —  /w//, — So  far  as  the  hand- 
writing is  concerned,  this  might  he  fall. 

Page  65,  line  5. —  his  son, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  Gian  Pietro. 

Page  65,  line  12-21. — The  sun  .  .  .  patron, 
—  Someone  has  drawn  against  this  a  pencil 
line  in  the  margin. 

Page  66,  line  6.—  should  be, — R.  L.  S.  con- 
tinued it  first  at  the  disposal  of  himself  or  his 
friends  all  night  through,  whatever  inconsis- 
tent. This  was  struck  out,  and  open  written  as 
a  catchword  at  the  bottom  of  the  page;  but  the 
next  page  (37)  did  not  begin,  as  it  should  have 
done,  with  open,  whatever,  but  only  with  in- 
consistent.   At  the  top  of  p.  37  of  the  MS.  ap- 

[118] 


pear  in  ink,  probably  in  Stevenson's  hand, 
though  smaller  than  usual,  the  words  "rewrite 
this  page."  The  initials  "L.  S."  are  appended 
in  parentheses,  a  pencil  being  employed.  "L. 
S."  may  be  Louis  Stevenson,  but  they  are  also 
the  initials  of  Leslie  Stephen,  and  they  may 
indicate  the  latter's  agreement  with  the  au- 
thor's memorandum. 

Page  67,  line  3. —  indignity. — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  after  this  word.  As  whenever,  therefore, 
Sanazarro  entered  the  Pala. 

Page  67,  line  14. —  down, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  along. 

Page  68,  line  6. —  more  luxuriant, — Some- 
one has  underscored  these  words,  and  has  writ- 
ten in  pencil  in  the  margin  the  word  "weak." 

Page  68,  line  16. — The  next, — Against  this 
paragraph  someone  has  made  in  pencil  in  the 
margin  a  large  mark  of  interrogation. 

Page  68,  line  26. —  with  which, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  of  which. 

Page  69,  line  i. —  satisfied, — R.  L.  S.  began 
to  write  pleased. 

Page  69,  line  4. —  request, — R.  L.  S.  contin- 
ued with,  and  struck  out,  he  had  just  so  much 
respect  for  his  wife  in  his  better,  the  last  word 

[i'9] 


being  the  catchword.  He  then  supplied  a  new 
catchword  in,  and  began  p.  39  as  in  the  text. 

Page  69,  line  6. — find, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
make,  following  it  with  something  apparently 
meant  for  her,  and  following  that  with  another 
make. 

Page  69,  line  14. —  prepare  myself, — R.  L. 
S.  first  wrote  persuade  my. 

Page  70,  line  3-5. — /  warn  .  .  .  feelings, — 
Someone  has  struck  this  out  with  a  pencil. 

Page  70,  line  25. — herself, — After  this  word 
R.  L.  S.  began  to  write,  and  struck  out,  during 
my. 

Page  71,  line  4. — whispered, — R.  L.  S.  be- 
gan to  write,  and  struck  out,  gave  him. 

Page  71,  line  23. — The  older, — Against  this 
and  the  two  next  paragraphs  someone,  perhaps 
T.  S.,  has  drawn  a  line,  and  has  written  in  the 
margin,  "all  these  parts  might  have  a  little 
more  fire  and  go  and  condensation." 

Page  72,  line  22. — he, — R.  L.  S.  wrote  after 
this  word,  then  struck  out,  took. 

Page  73,  line  8. —  torment  him, — R.  L.  S. 
continued,  but  struck  out,  There  was  now  no 
Not  only  the  horror  of  the  impending  massa- 
cre. 

[  120] 


^^S^73i  li"^  1 1- — 'were, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
was.  he  feared  some  mischance, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  what  might  not  happen. 

Page  73,  line  17. — private, — Someone  has 
struck  out  this  word  with  a  pencil,  and  has  re- 
peated the  process  just  below,  inserting  after 
written  the  words  "in  the  Duke's  praise." 

Page  73,  line  18. — poet, — R.  L.  S.  struck  out 
after  this  word  in  honour  of  the  reconciliation 
of  old  foes. 

Page  73,  line  25. — gate, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
town,  mighty, — R.  L.  S.  seems  to  have  begun 
to  write  great. 

Page  75,  line  2. — away, — R.  L.  S.  wrote  af- 
ter this,  but  struck  out,  at  once,  the  fragment, 
— R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  it. 

Page  75,  line  3-4. —  thenceforward, — R.  L. 
S.  began  to  write  afterwards  or  afterward, 
chisel, — Someone,  probably  T.  S.,  pertinently 
suggested  "hammer."  bare, — R.  L.  S.  next 
wrote  and  struck  out  and  shot  back. 

Page  75,  line  14. —  brows, — R.  L.  S.  contin- 
ued with,  but  struck  out,  and  felt  as  though  a 
weight  had  been  lifted. 

Page  75,  line  18. —  but, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
and. 

[121] 


Page  y^,  line  2^.— going,— R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  coming  and  going. 

Page  76,  line  12. — tra'ject, — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  that  after  this  word.  Someone,  apparently 
T.  S.,  suggested  transit  in  the  margin. 

Page  76,  line  24. —  drew, — R.  L.  S.  seems  at 
first  to  have  wrtten  laid,  perhaps  intending  to 
write  "laid  about  him." 

Page  77,  line  13. —  you  may  imagine, — 
Someone  has  struck  out  these  words  with  a 
pencil. 

Page  78,  line  i. —  anyone, — Someone  seems 
to  have  run  a  light  pencil  through  any. 

Page  78,  line  19. —  attached  to. — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  belonging  to. 

Page  79,  line  13. —  trooped  off  laughing, — 
R.  L.  S.  struck  out  before  these  words,  tripped 
off  lau. 

Page  80,  line  3. —  falsehood, — T.  S.  (?)  un- 
derscored and  wrote  "lie."  He  also  ran  his 
pencil  through  discontented. 

Page  80,  line  5. —  replied, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  returned. 

Page  80,  line  18. —  pitched  upon, — R.  L.  S. 
first  wrote  fixed  upon. 

[  122] 


Page  80,  line  21. —  knowing, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  having. 

Page  81,  line  20. — What, — R.  L.  S.  first  be- 
gan his  sentence  with  Wherefore. 

Page  81,  line  26. —  advantage  to  the  chase, — 
Someone  underscored,  and  placed  a  mark  of 
interrogation  in  the  margin.  R.  L.  S.  wrote 
the  twice,  deleting  the  second. 

Page  82,  line  i. —  gained, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  venture. 

Page  82,  line  6. —  Sanazarro, — Here,  in  the 
margin,  and  a  little  below,  two  lines  have  been 
drawn  in  pencil. 

Page  82,  line  11. —  galleries, — R.  L.  S.  first 
put  a  colon  after  this  word,  and  continued,  it 
was  plain  that  Orsino  had  left  the  palace  by  the 
private  door. 

Page  82,  line  17. — vivid, — Inserted  by  R.  L. 
S.,  with  a  caret.  After  moonlight  he  struck 
out  so  intense,  that,  and,  having  written  vivid 
above,  struck  that  out  also. 

Page  82,  line  20. —  moved, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  stirred. 

Page  82,  line  23. —  intense, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  vivid. 

Page  83,  line  i. — Isotta, — T.  S.,  if  it  were 

[  123] 


he,  always  intent  on  his  own  views,  under- 
scored and  wrote  in  the  margin,  "Diamante." 

Page  83,  line  15. — violent, — R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  great.  Someone  drew  a  light  pencil 
mark  in  the  margin  against  the  passage,  with 
him, — R.  L.  S.  at  first  enclosed  in  commas. 

Page  83,  line  18. —  brain, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  mind. 

Page  83,  line  19. —  Whether, —  R.  L.  S. 
wrote  Whether  he  was  right  or  not  in,  then 
struck  out  he  was  right  and  in. 

Page  84,  line  i, —  to  fortify, — R.  L.  S.  in- 
serted to,  with  a  caret.  T.  S.  wrote  against  the 
passage,  in  the  margin,  "Surely  his  hatred  of 
Orso  would  get  something  here  from  his  love 
of  Ippolita." 

Page  84,  line  20. —  Duke, — R.  L.  S.  began 
to  write  a  continuation  of  the  Duke's  speech, 
''Must  I,  then  struck  it  out. 

Page  85,  line  2. —  falling, — After  this  word 
R.  L.  S.  wrote,  and  struck  out,  at  the  foot  of 
the. 

Page  85,  line  16. —  ring, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  clash. 

Page  86,  line  9. —  out  a  tocsin, —  Someone 
has  struck  out  with  a  pencil. 

[  124] 


Page  86,  line  12. — Sanazarro  began, — These 
words  were  appended  to  the  preceding  para- 
graph, and  were  then  struck  out  by  R.  L.  S. 

Page  86,  line  13-14. —  although.  .  .  .hours, 
— Struck  out  by  T.  S.,  who  drew  a  line  in  the 
margin  and  wrote,  'This  peripetie  admirable 
in  itself  but  these  sentences  somehow  weaken 
it.  'began  to  comprehend'  is  not  the  kind  of 
way  it  would  dawn  upon  him."  The  use  of  the 
French  term  for  that  partof  a  drama  where  the 
plot  is  unravelled  seems  a  bit  more  in  keeping 
with  Leslie  Stephen  than  with  Thomas  Steven- 
son, yet  the  hand  suggests  that  which  made 
most  of  the  annotations.  Have  we  been  misin- 
formed as  to  the  father's  part  in  the  revising? 

Page  86,  line  21.—  distant, — R.  L.  S.  con- 
tinued, but  struck  out,  and  were  watched;  then 
he  struck  out  watched  and  wrote  guarded  by 
one  bewildered  sentinel,  who  was  so  full  of 
inquiries  as  to  why  they  had  begun  the  war. 
He  also  started  to  write  above  these  words  a 
new  sentence  beginning  with  They. 

Page  86,  line  25. —  enterprise, —  R.  L.  S. 
struck  out  night's  before  this  word. 

Page  87,  line  2. —  know, —  R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  what  was  after  this  word. 

[125] 


Page  87,  line  5. —  the, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
your. 

Page  87,  line  17-18. —  a  sense  of  power  in 
him. —  T.  S.  suggested  "in  him  a  sense  of 
power." 

Page  87,  line  22. — forward, — R.  L.  S.  struck 
out  through  the  night  after  this  word. 

Page  88,  line  13-14. — Against  the  paragraph 
someone,  apparently  T.  S.,  has  drawn  a  line 
in  the  margin,  and  written  "good."  that, — R. 
L.  S.  originally  wrote  in  that. 

Page  88,  line  25. —  had  now  become  gloomy, 
— R.  L.  S.  first  wrote  was  now  something  sul- 
len. 

Page  89,  line  3. —  spurred, — R.  L.  S.  seems 
to  have  begun,  before  this  word,  to  write  suf- 
fered, or  else  suffering. 

Page  89,  line  15. —  then, —  R.  L.  S.  first 
wrote  again. 

Page  89,  line  19. —  distribution, — T.  S.  sug- 
gested "play." 

Page  90,  line  13. —  set, — R.  L.  S.  first  wrote 
fixed. 

Page  90,  line  22. —  chapel, — The  MS.  ends 
more  than  half  way  down  page  54,  and  below 
the  last  line  of  text  R.  L.  S.  drew  a  line.  Some- 

[.26] 


one  has  scribled  in  a  large  hand,  in  pencil,  be- 
low this  line,  "Bravissimo,  caro  mio!"  To  the 
side  of  this  we  find  in  a  small  hand,  "whose 
remark  is  the  above?"  This  query  is  signed 
"S,"  and  appears  to  be  by  T.  S.,  who  has  writ- 
ten above  the  Italian  words  of  encouragement, 
"It  would  have  helped  to  make  the  marriage 
of  artist  and  countess  possible  —  if  you  had 
said  how  Ercole  would  take  no  half  measures 
now  he  had  won,  but  would  destroy  ["root 
out"  was  first  employed]  the  house  of  Orso, 
root  and  branch,  with  murder,  pursuit  and 
spoliation  —  so  that  Ippolita  would  be  impov- 
erished and  imperilled ;  then  she  would  not  be 
too  proud  or  too  great  for  Lando." 


[  127] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


T^^TE    1/ 


-^'"^m 


,  rvi'^'.'*'*.'-.    ■0,^-**'  jt.'' 


-PE- 


Stevenson  -^ 


5U88  IVhen  the  devil 
'N$7 was  well 


PR 

5U88 

W57 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  376  881    9 


\. 


